


if i break my face

by TheWholeEatingBreadThing



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Child Abuse, Found Family, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Self-Harm, Tags May Change, aromantic beetlejuice, ill sleep when im dead, its fine tho, its not plot relevant i just thought everyone should know, musical verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWholeEatingBreadThing/pseuds/TheWholeEatingBreadThing
Summary: Two months later and everything is exactly the same.Or: Beetlejuice is back and wow, who knew things could actually get worse?
Relationships: Adam Maitland/Barbara Maitland, Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Charles Deetz/Delia Deetz
Comments: 202
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

It was dumb, okay? The whole thing was dumb, a show of teenage stupidity, cliched to death. If it were a movie, it would be the sort of movie that started with a song by a long-forgotten boy band. A song that if anyone over the age of twelve watched, they’d scoff at the unrealistic portrayals and overblown acting. In short: it was dumb, everything was stupid, and Lydia still kind of wanted to die.

It happened last period. Gym class, because of course it was gym class. Fifth-period gym class was when her life became a dramatic recreation of mean girls. 

There was this girl, Jen—short for Jennifer—and she was a bitch. Strawberry blonde hair, brown eyes, freckles, the kind of girl that everyone knows but most people hate. And until now, Lydia had felt bad for her, key words being “until” and “now”.

“Lydia,” she’d said brightly. They were both leaving class and Jen seemed to take Lydia’s silence as a sign that Lydia had accepted her presence. And to an extent, she had. With Lydia fighting to ignore the urge to bite anxiously at her fingernails, chew at her lip. 

Jen nudged her then, shoulder to shoulder, and then stopped, suddenly, so suddenly that Lydia had to turn around to face her.

“Yeah?” Lydia said, mentally cursing. It was stupid, she knew, and she probably sounded even more like an idiot than she’d thought. Her hand tightened around her opposite wrist.

“So are you like—you’re a witch, right? Like, a pagan or whatever?”  
Fuck.

“I don't think so,” Lydia replied.

Her fingernails dug into her wrist like a too-tight bracelet as she tried not to think of a certain...being. Beetlejuice, mostly Beetlejuice, okay, fine, she’d met a demon once, alright? It wasn't like she’d written the book on demons or anything. It was a one-time thing and a one-time thing it would remain.

Still, it was hard not to think of the—well, whatever he was—man didn't sound right, and demon just, it sounded sterile, impersonal. Whatever he was, she missed him a lot more than she ever wanted to admit.

Not that Lydia would admit such a thing to anyone in a million years, so she just dipped her head, letting her bangs fall into her eyes and hoped that by some miracle, she would sink through the floor as though she herself had become a newly dead. Ghost. Whatever. Goddamn.

“Really?” Jen said, breaking Lydia’s train of thought. “Then why do you dress like that? Last I’d checked, this wasn't a funeral.”

“Right,” Lydia said, and a sick, sharp feeling began to form in her stomach. Something that quickly faded to a sadistic sort of rage. 

“I'm not really supposed to tell anyone about this, for um, obvious reasons, but my dad murdered his girlfriend last year—today’s the anniversary. She was in the shower when he came in, stabbed her to death, so much blood, you should’ve seen it,” Lydia paused. “Will you leave me alone now or do I have to stomp on your foot?”

Jen’s face went red in an instant. Fists clenched, she shoved Lydia backward, sending her sprawling.

“God,” Jen said. “Such a creep. Everyone hates you—no wonder, Lydia-whatever-the-fuck: school shooter in the making.”

“Ow,” Lydia muttered dully. “What a surprise.”

She stood, rubbed at her cheek. Rather naively, she figured this would be the end of it.  
Unfortunately, the conversation was of the sort that attracted an audience, and the two were now surrounded by a roughly circular gaggle of girls, all lipgloss, and too much perfume.

Long story short, well, not as much long but moderately-sized, involving punching and kicking and Jen, flanked by two other girls, scissors held in her hand as she forced Lydia against the wall.

Lydia felt her chest tighten with anxiety. She was quite certain that this was the end of her chance at fitting in (as well as her haircut). 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she wanted—no, that wasn't right—she _needed_ an out, an instant trump card and for a moment, she remained at a loss, her eyes flitting wildly between Jen, a smaller girl called Maria, and another by the name of Izzy.

That was when it came to her. It wasn't a _good_ idea, but it was far from her worst because let’s face it, she’d fucked up quite a lot in the last couple of months, what was one more stupid, shitty thing to add to the pile?

“Beetlejuice,” she started.

“The fuck is she saying?” someone—probably Izzy—said, an amused lilt to her tone.

“God,” Jen replied. “This has got to be like, her summoning curse or some shit.” She turned to Lydia. “Do you believe this crap? Pathetic. Right guys? She’s fucking pathetic.”

“Beetlejuice,” Lydia said again. She’d begun to reconsider if she should go through with this. Summoning a likely homicidal demon into a change room full of teenage girls? Yeah, come to think of it, horrible idea.

_“Snip.”_

A lock of Lydia’s hair drifted past her face.

Fuck it. Fuck them. Double fuck them. Triple, no, _quadruple_ fuck them.

“Beetlejuice,” she said.

For a split second, there was nothing, just the blood racing in her ears, the laughter from the surrounding girls.

“Beetlejuice?” Maria asked, her voice uncertain. Lydia almost felt bad for her. “What’s that.”

“I think you mean _who’s_ that,” said a voice. Distinct, akin to a chain smoker that had swallowed a barrel of cement. “Seeing as I'm him and he’s me and sweet Jesus; grammar not my strength.”

Lydia flashed him a grin.

“Hiya Scarecrow.”

He smiled back. Or, his approximation of one. A showing of too many teeth, reminiscent of an anglerfish, accentuated by the fierce yellow glow of his eyes. To put it succinctly, he looked terrifying, or he would've, if not for the patch of wildflowers growing out of his hair, the softness to his features; it was like trying to be afraid of an overgrown raccoon—never gonna happen.

“Holy shit”: Maria, wide-eyed. “Do you guys see it too?”

“Do you guys _smell_ it too?” Jen added, though her tone rang hollow.

“I am really feeling the hostility in here—guess it’s true what they say about teenage girls,” Beetlejuice snarked.

“And what’s that?” Jen said, unbothered.

“Oh, just that you’re all perfect angels that are always incredibly nice to one another,” he said. “Sike. you guys are little bitches.”

The room was immediately plunged into darkness—utter blackness save for his glowing yellow pupils. The sudden darkness was followed by banging as each and every one of the lockers blew open. Backpacks, binders, even a spare pair of shoes, were sent hurtling across the room, as if the energy that now filled the space had swept the items up in its excitement.

When he spoke, his voice ricocheted around the room.

_“Get away from her, you teenagery douche farts—and I'm talking double time or I’ll pluck your eyeballs out through your assholes to see what sort of sounds you make.”_

Lydia only felt relief.

The chaos continued, the room full of Beetlejuice's chuckling, interrupted by intermittent screams as girls blundered helplessly through the darkened room. He must’ve been shielding her somehow, because though she heard the objects zipping past, the painful sound of people colliding into one another, Lydia remained unscathed. 

Once the room had emptied, everything slowed, books and backpacks hitting the ground in a series of muffled thuds. Beetlejuice’s eyes dimmed from demonic red to his usual orangey-yellow hue.

The lights flickered once, twice, before blinking on. Revealing the mess the changeroom had become. As the remaining girls funneled towards the door, Lydia’s gaze never moved from his face, the near-uncontrollable grin that lit his eyes. 

Beetlejuice was panting, Lydia realized, panting like a dog, and when she stepped closer she saw drool dripping down his chin. Disgusting, she thought as she threw herself towards him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

He stiffened before returning the embrace. 

“I missed you, you big stupid lug,” she said, her face buried in his shoulder, nostrils full of his usual grave dirt and cigarette combo, coupled with something new and decidedly worse. Lydia winced, dropping her arms to her sides, she pushed him away.

Once the initial excitement wore off, she saw fit to glare at him, punching his shoulder less-than-lightly. 

Beetlejuice flinched, stepping backward as confused yellow overtook his hair.

“What was that for?” he growled, without any real malice to his tone.

“You said you’d come back.”

“Im here, aren't I?”

“It's been two months, Beej.”

“Shit, really? Woah. Breather time must be crazy outta whack if this is—two months? Are you sure?”

Lydia glared.

“Let me just check my pocket calendar—of course it’s been two months! And I know it’s dumb but I actually started to miss you after you left. Like, a lot. You’re the only one that _gets_ me, you know?”

Lydia was met with stunned silence as BJ brought his hands to his head in an attempt to hide his pinkening hair. He was embarrassed, overwhelmed maybe, and it came to her all at once, that this was probably the first time anyone had told him they'd missed having him around. 

Maybe everyone saw her as a little kid, and maybe she was sort of immature, famously not-great at emotions, but even with the little time she’d spent with the demon, Lydia could tell that his Netherworld upbringing had been far from stellar. 

Having noticed the look she was giving him, Beetlejuice cracked a grin, stuffing his hands into his pockets almost nonchalantly.

“Samesies,” he said, after an uncomfortably long silence. “You’re pretty alright for a breather.”

Lydia fought to hide her smile.

In an attempt to break the tension, she gestured to the surrounding wreckage.

“Thanks, for uh, for saving my ass. You’re somehow even more chaotic than last time. I like it.”

“Don't mention it, kid,” he paused and his eyes flitted over the room, going from disinterested to amused to utterly bored. “So this is school, yeah? Smaller than I thought it’d be.”

“This is the changing room.”

“Remind me how often you breathers need to change clothes? ‘Cause this seems ridiculous.” 

“The _girls' changing_ room.”

“Double oh.”

Oddly nimble for his size, Beetlejuice dropped cross-legged to the floor.

Almost tentatively, he picked up an abandoned textbook, sniffed it, before licking the spine, a look of contentment coming over his features.

Lydia considered him for a few seconds before joining him on the floor. She plopped her backpack into her lap as he tore out page after page, stuffing them into his mouth.

“You’re totally not supposed to be in here.”

“Hey!” he said, affronted. “Last I checked, you were the one who summoned me. Not like I had much of a choice in the matter.”

BJ shoved the entire chapter on geometry into his mouth before continuing.

“Plus, I'm only like, halfway gender anyways. There are two, right? How many am I supposed to have? Breathers are confusing.”

“Eh. It’s pretty much a construct anyway.”

“In that case, you can keep you can keep your geeky breather gender bullshit to yourself and—”

Beetlejuice froze as if he'd just watched someone kill a puppy in front of him, which, knowing him, he'd probably jump at the chance to watch a small animal die, so maybe not that, but he was clearly upset by something. 

He stood. Dropping the textbook with a dull thwack, Beetlejuice ran a pale hand through his blue-green hair. Blue was—blue was sad. Lydia eyed the tinge of purple, embarrassment?

Guilt.

“You’re fine, right? Not like, super emotionally traumatized or anything—that would be crazy, even though you _are_ sort of crazy so…” 

He trailed off.

“What I'm trying to say is that I think, I mean, I am—I was, like, admittedly kind of really terrible to you last time with the whole, marrying-you-and-trying-to-kill-your-family thing. And I know your folks were super adamant about never wanting to see me again, which, hey, fair enough, I can play ball. I just—

“Imsorryiwasahugedickpleasedonthateme.”

Beetlejuice coughed, his eyes glued to the floor as he fumbled with the cuffs of his jacket.

“I don't hate you,” Lydia said, raising a hand to awkwardly pat his shoulder, equal parts surprised and disturbed to realize he was shaking. “I mean sure, you’re mildly disgusting and also creepy, but if you think about it, who isn't?”

Beetlejuice’s eyes narrowed into slits as he peered at her suspiciously. Though his hair, now tipped with green, betrayed his appreciation.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically small. “You really think so?”

“I know it, Beej,” Lydia slung her backpack over her shoulders. “You wanna get out of here? Kindergarteners get out in ten minutes, prime scaring time.”

Beetlejuice brightened and then paused, the grin wiping itself of his face.

“Love to. Love to but I can't.” Beetlejuice pulled a slip of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it up, wilting as it unraveled, almost as tall as he was.

“See this? Schedule’s jam-packed fulla shit. I’ve got newly deads coming out of my ears,” he waggled his eyebrows. “And other, _funner_ , orifices too if you catch my drift.”

“Ugh. Thumbs down,” Lydia said. “Besides, since when did you learn to read?”

Beetlejuice clutched his chest. “You wound me, you really do. Me and my non-beating heart.”

Lydia blew a raspberry.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Fiiiiiine. If you must know, my mom’s assistant read it to me. Took her like, an hour to get through, Jesus fuck.”

With that, followed by an aggressive hair ruffle, Beetlejuice stuck his hands in his pockets. Fumbling for a moment, he brought out a dusty stick of chalk. He glanced at it expectantly, snapping the fingers of his free hand. Only then did it shoot out of his grip, drawing a crude door underneath his feet.

“Hey,” Lydia said, eyeing the chalk as it made its way across the floor. “You’ll be back, though, right?”

She dipped her head, scratching at the nape of her neck. “You’re my best-friend-slash-brother-slash-crazy-uncle, Beej, and I, I need you.”

“Uh,” BJ said, his hair going a muddy pinkish green. “‘Course I will—you couldn't keep the B-man away if you wanted to.”

“Good,” she replied.

BJ gave her a nod of affirmation, his fingers forming a lazy salute as the door swung inwards and he vanished, leaving nothing behind but a moldy puff of smoke.

Lydia walked out of school smiling.

⁂

After BJ’s departure, aside from a gaping hole in the wall and some truly horrendous interior decorating, it was like none of it had ever happened. And once her dad had the damage repaired, things returned to normal with surprising speed.

The adults of the house seemed unwilling to talk about the events that had occurred two months prior. Sure, now they had ghosts living in their attic, and sure, now she saw a therapist once a week, but really, it bothered her how easily they’d all moved on. As if the demon and all that came with him was something that could be shoved under the rug and forgotten.

In all honesty, it upset Lydia more than she wanted to admit. It bothered her that for all they’d said in the heat of the moment, about communication and how things would be better now, Lydia, how communication was key, communication about everything aside from a certain demon.

It was no secret that BJ had made the Maitlands incredibly uncomfortable—and she didn’t blame them—she knew her dad saw him as little more than a pest, something strange and threatening, best kept away from himself and his daughter, and Delia, well, Lydia was never quite sure what was going on in her head.

Lydia assumed, or rather, she’d hoped, Beetlejuice would come back once things had calmed down, that if her dad, stepmom, and the Maitlands got to know him, they’d warm up to his presence. As he was, obviously, an acquired taste.

And now that he _had_ come back (albeit briefly), Lydia figured there was no better time to bring him up.

As much as she wanted to go to her father, he was far from the optimal candidate, and that if she told him what had happened, he’d be trying to get a restraining order on a dead guy in about two seconds flat.

The next (and best) option was Barbara, who, as much as Lydia hated to admit it, had become an almost surrogate mother to Lydia. Barbara provided her with a sense of stability, a level-headedness the others lacked.

Which was why she cornered Barbara that night.

Lydia found her the kitchen, spaghetti strainer in hand, Barbara offered Lydia a noodle.

“Is it ready, do you think?” Barbara asked, a wide smile on her face as she ran a hand through Lydia’s puff of hair. 

Lydia nodded.

“This might sound silly, but I never imagined how difficult it would be to cook without being able to taste anything. You’re a lifesaver, Lydia,” Barbara said.

“It’s nice to help out,” Lydia replied, hopping up to sit on the countertop.

As they sank into an amicable silence, she figured it would be best to rip off the bandaid.

“Something funny happened at school today,” Lydia said, hesitant.

“What’s that?” Barbara replied, intent on the ever-thickening pasta sauce.

“Well, I—do you ever think about, you know, him?" Lydia refused to use his actual title for fear of summoning him. "Because, I, sometimes I wonder if—“

She was met with a look of panic.

“He didn’t show up at your school, did he? Because that would be wildly inappropriate. Gosh, I will march down to the netherworld and tell him off for this, why would he even—Lydia?” She said, noticing Lydia’s look of surprise.

“No,” Lydia said, fast as she could. “Nothing like that, I was just thinking about him, about the whole thing really, and I was wondering if—“

“I know he was...” Barbara trailed off. “Like a friend to you. You had a bond of sorts, right? But honey, he’s not—he tried to exorcise me, tried to _marry_ you—I don’t think you understand how lucky we are to have avoided—“

“Something worse, right? Like what? He was only doing what I asked him to do. We lied to him, manipulated him, I—I killed him, the whole thing was fucked up but—“

“Language.”

“Sorry, I, I just,” Lydia broke off into a half-strangled sob. “He was the only friend I’ve had since mom died, and I’m trying, alright? With school, but people don’t—”

When she found she could no longer force the words past her lips, Lydia sat silent, gripping the marble countertop tightly as she tried to regain control.

Finally, after Barbara offered a tissue and a hand-squeeze, she continued.

“Do you ever feel like you're the one piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit? Like you’re just, you’re just sitting there waiting for someone to fit you into place, only that day never comes and you’re left waiting and you’ve got nothing, no one because you’re not supposed to—“

Lydia wiped angrily at the tears streaking her cheeks.

“I don't belong anywhere,” Lydia said, wishing the floor would open and swallow her up.  
Ironic, considering what had happened to the Maitlands.

“Oh honey,” Barbara said, coming to wrap her arms around Lydia. “That’s awful, and I’m sorry you feel that way, and I know, obviously, I can’t, I’m not your mom or anything, but I love you, and so does Adam and Delia and your dad, we love you so much.”

“Yeah, but you’re like, required to love me.”

“It doesn't make it any less real,” Barbara said.

Lydia bit back a sob.

Barbara didn't get it, she didn't fucking understand what it was like with the kids at school. The taunting and jeering, the glares. She’d eaten lunch alone every day since she started school in January, not once had anyone tried to sit with her.

It was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone, where Lydia’s very presence was seen as something other, which, while being something she was used to, it had never stopped her from having a least a few friends, someone to complain to about the shitty Shakespeare plays the English teachers made them read, someone to swap snacks with at lunch. 

Now, she had no one. And Barbara had no idea how horrible that felt.

“I'm going to my room,” Lydia said stiffly.

She dropped down from the counter, hissing as her hip met with the side of the island. Ignoring Barbara’s attempts to call her back, Lydia took the stairs two at a time, hardly able to breathe until she slammed the door shut behind her. She sank to her knees, back against the wall.

If Barbara wasn't going to be any help, she would have to figure this out herself; she _had_ to get BJ back.

Because, while yes, it was stupid, mind blowingly stupid, the demon was her only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, i wrote a thing, there's a bunch more if y'all want to keep reading my bullshit, just, give me a second to ramble because i have Feelings.
> 
> 1) firstoff, BJ is hard to write?? Like this fucking asshole had the absolute AUDACITY to have whack ass inflection to the point where it cannot be rendered in text without loosing it's original energy. Im sorry.  
> 2) also, sidenote, got quarantined, watched the bootleg, cried, and now im here. Cool.  
> 3) title is from the song Break My Face by AJR, an absolute banger if I do say so myself.
> 
> Anyway, feel free to comment or critique or whatever, im totally down for whatever you guys have to say to me, you funky little assholes, also, y'know, you could go the extra mile and follow me on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) and we can be friends.
> 
> kay, imma peace out, ty for for reading


	2. Chapter 2

“Relax, sweetheart, s’not like I can kill you twice.”

There was like, a shitload of mud stuck to the bottom of his boots. 

In fact, it made almost no rational sense as to how the muck had gotten there. Except for the bog he was sort of definitely standing in. There was also water, wet, peaty shit that coated the cuffs of his pants, clumped against his shoes. To top it off, it was sweltering hot, hot enough that he thought he might vomit if he stayed out much longer.

And then there was the smell.

Beetlejuice was in his glory. Which is, yeah, he was living out his best undead life and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

Except for the very strong, very angry ghost-lady who was looking at him like something she might find stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Gum or shit and Beetlejuice wasn't picky but if he had to die, he’d rather it not be by the hands of an overzealous murder victim.

She slapped him. Hard. So hard he was sent staggering back a step.

Beetlejuice rubbed a grimy (even by his standards) hand over his smarting cheek. Goddamnit. God-fucking-damnit, why did his unlife have to suck so goddamn bad? Why couldn't he have been born cool and rich and very much not dead? And while he was at it, it would be great if he was slightly less short, and uh, a whole lot better at spelling. Alas, the odds were not, and would never be in his favor, so instead, he got another slap to the face.

This time, however, it was followed with a straight-up pummeling as she whacked him repeatedly over the head with the handbook he’d dropped when she’d hit him the first time.

Beetlejuice saw stars.

This was fine. Seriously. Beetlejuice was...great, and you know what? The middle of a deadly altercation with a ghost girl was as good a time as any for a little bit of backstory. Hell, why not fling in a whole steaming shitload of exposition of funsies, not like it could hurt.

Ready?

You fucking better be.

Upon receiving the handbook, most newly deads were happy enough to file on down to the netherworld, which, hey, In Beetlejuice’s opinion, was a rather ginormously stupid move, but that was to be expected, given how he was rather fucking biased thank you very much.

Thing is, sure most ghosties were good with saying sayonara to the whole being alive thing, some were, to put it simply, not down to clown.

Beetlejuice didn't blame them one bit.

They were a huge pain in the ass though. Seeing as it was his job to unstick those stupidly insistent spirits like a janitor scraping fossilized boogers off the bottom of the weird kid’s desk. If anything, his job was even more unsavory, with him having to deal with the occasional summoning. Usually, it was a breather who wanted someone murdered or maimed, sliced or diced. Some wanted help in the form of the demonic arts. And some, the slim percentage of the lot, wanted to get _freaky_ which, uh, not exactly a thing he’d prefer to dwell on.

This assignment had less to do with his mother’s curse and more to do with his shitty gig as a bio-exorcist.

Beetlejuice would like to think that he was good at his job. And he was right, taking an embarrassing amount of pride in his work. So when he’d showed up at the office hyped up on the dredges of whatever drugs he’d taken the night before, plus like, a shitload of Redbull, it was safe to say he was raring to go.

But this was his fifth job of the day. And yeah, things were starting to look a whole lot less sparkly. Beetlejuice wanted, more than anything, or not, not anything, but like, a lot of things, he wanted more than a lot of things to be able to sit back on his one ratty armchair and fall asleep watching the static on his television screen.

Instead, he got a murder victim. Name: unclear, mostly because he was still working on his reading comprehension and his handwriting was illegible on a good day, and yesterday, when he’d scrawled out the names of the recently deceased on the back of his hand, had not been a good day.

In short, the lady had been murdered by her husband. Shot once, stabbed a bunch, strangled to top it all off, before he’d dumped her body in the middle of nowhere. They’d only been married two weeks which, _ouch_ , even Beetlejuice, a generally unempathetic creature, felt a little bad for her. Or he had.

Y’know, before she manifested. Crawled straight out of a tree, arms outstretched in a bad imitation of that weirdo ghost girl from _The Ring_. She’d scratched his face up too, like some sort of fucking cat. Punched and hit and spat black ooze all over his suit like she’d walked in on him having sex with her dog.

Beetlejuice spat out a tooth. Not his own tooth, mind you, just like, someone’s tooth. Considering the not-so-newly-dead.

She was tall, taller than him, clad in nothing but her undies, which had long since started to rot off her body. Long black hair whipped around her face, free of any breeze. To top it all off, there were two vague holes where her eyes might have been, her mouth still full of gleaming, bone-white teeth.

That was where she lost any resemblance to anything remotely close to human.

The bog water, coupled with the weather, humid and hotter than satan’s asshole, had not treated her well, and she was now almost entirely coated in various species of insect. From maggots to wasps, her flesh all but stripped away to reveal grisly fat, muscle, and even bone, pickled and rotted. If Beetlejuice had been, well, anyone else, really, he would've had a hard time trying not to lose his lunch.

He wasn't, though, so he didn't, retaining a fairly cool demeanor—or at least he liked to think he did.

“Alright, alright, we get it,” he said, unsure if he was talking to her or himself. “You’re all hot and bothered ‘cause your asshole husband decided he wanted a place on America's most wanted, and hey, that sucks a mega shitload of dick, you got no idea, and you probably already know that most of the evidence was suuuuuper circumstantial, were talkin’ neighbors and not much else.”

For the first time, she appeared to be listening to him, her head cocked sideways with slightly less murderous intensity.

“I say he gets away with it. If you’re lucky, they’ll slap him with obstruction of justice, if they find any evidence, that is. Bump him from POI to suspect status. They’ll know he did it, just won't be able to nail him for anything. Twenty dollars says he plants some suspicious shit on your phone, makes it look like you had some sort of super sexy fling going on—make 'em think the ‘other guy’ did it. But hey, what do I know?”

The newly dead let out a roar of anger. Shrouds of dark mist began to surround her person, engulfing her.

Beetlejuice blinked, psyched to find that the mist was not mist but a thick swarm of aphids. However, his excitement quickly faded when she once again charged in his direction, screeching like a cat in heat.

That was when Beetlejuice realized just how royally he’d screwed up.

Slowly, he stepped backward, and, to his displeasure, he felt his foot sink into calf-high mud, sucking him downwards as it clotted his suit.

If Beetlejuice was a lesser demon, he would have screamed, or possibly cried, hopped straight back to the netherworld faster than anyone could say “Boo.”

And sure, maybe he cheated and screamed a little, but that was only once he found that he was unable to tug himself free, so, if you think about it, it didn't really count at all.

When that didn't work, he resorted to using most of, if not all, of the curse words and curses alike that served as his wide range of vocabulary.

To his horror, he’d started to sink deeper into the insidious mud. The aphids where everywhere now, tangling in his hair, his mouth. When he chomped on a few, they tasted nothing like the bugs he was used to eating, but like human flesh.

Beetlejuice, it seemed, was very much up shits' creek without a paddle and paddle-less he would remain.

She advanced slowly and then all at once, grasping him by the throat and hauling him clean out of the mud. To Beetlejuice’s abject dread, she opened her mouth, revealing a mossy throat and pebble-like teeth.

Shit.

That was when he felt it, like a fish hook through his ribcage, tight and real and he almost sobbed in relief. If he could hold on for a second longer, he’d be alright, he just had to—

Beetlejuice disappeared in a flash of stinking green smoke, straight into a change room full of screaming girls. This? Yeah, he could work with this.

⁂

He’d forgotten how much he missed Lydia. How angry it made him to see her hurting. What made it even more shitty is that Beetlejuice didn't exactly feel that way too much. He’d felt it when he was a kid, kind of, for his mom, which, ugh, not something he wanted to get into, bygones and such. And as much as he loathed to admit it, he’d never actually been in a real relationship, or so much as—and this is even more pathetic—had a friend.

God. What a fucking shitstain he was.

But Lydia was like a sibling or a cousin and while Beetlejuice had never had any real, solid ties to any of his existing family, mom was...nope, and dad was...hell nope. But Lydia wasn't like that, Lydia was normal and nice and wouldn't try to kill him if he accidentally ate the TV remote.

Before he met her, Beetlejuice hadn't much minded being alone, hell, he preferred it. Sure, it felt great to be seen, but he was generally of the mind that he was like, a billion percent better off by himself. Except when it came to sex—and sometimes even then was he still better off alone.

All that had changed that day on the roof. He’d thought, briefly, that Lydia, the Maitlands too were his shot at normality, and he’d held onto it like a dog with a bone.

And then she’d killed him.

Not her fault, Beetlejuice knew. And he didn't get it—not really. Everything seemed so much more complicated for everyone else, like he was missing some huge piece of the puzzle because he was born dead--born? Spawned?--It was complicated and also not something he liked to think about. It was, in most cases, easier not to think about a lot of things.

Anyway, that thing, that sense of belonging? Gone the minute she’d quite literally stabbed him in the back.

He didn't blame her, okay? He just wished that things could have somehow gone differently. Hell, he would have gone back in time and redone things if such a thing didn't run a high risk of tearing a hole in the space time continuum.

But at that moment, when he’d realized it was her who’d summoned him, he’d felt—

Good.

Whole even. Like the time he’d eaten three bags of marshmallows. Right after that, when he felt warm and soft, settled down for a long, comfy nap only to wake up ten minutes later so he could vomit boatloads of the black gunk that constituted as his stomach acid. But before the vomiting part.

She’d looked at him, all stupid and careless ‘cause she was a kid, and she totally didn't know better. She didn't get that he was a fuckup, that his mom was back and Juno would quite literally murder his ass if he came to see her in the first place. Which he had, and he really, really needed to get back double-time if he wanted to avoid the ass-kicking of his undead life.

So he’d gone. Gone, and the expression on her face when she’d realized he was going reminded him of the demonic marshmallow vomit, which made him feel sick all over again. Dull and gross and bloated as he tumbled back to netherworld headquarters.

Which was where he stood. Running a hand over his face and through his hair, hoping, desperately, hoping that his mom wouldn't—

“Lawrence?”

Beetlejuice snapped out of his thought-tangent, turning to see Miss Argentina staring at him. Rather skeptically, he might add.

“That’s my name,” he said, trying his best to not sound like he’d just had his heart ripped out of his chest, shattered, and then stomped on for good measure.

What added insult to injury is that he’d made the mistake of telling Lydia he was coming back. Like that was somehow something he could do without landing himself in more trouble than he ought to get himself into if he wanted to keep his skin.

“How’d it go?” she asked, and he shook his head, shrugged, nodded vaguely.

When that caused her lips to pull into a frown, he shrugged again, motioned to the gash just about his eyelid, the dirt sticking to his boots, inky black blood decorating his jacket—all of which he’d hidden upon seeing Lydia.

A little magic goes a long way, especially when it came to deceiving breathers.

“Yikes,” she said. “That bad, huh?”

“The lady of the swamp remains unconvinced." Beetlejuice scratched at the congealed not-blood that coated his cheek. “She’s a real bitch, ain't she? Thinks she’s hot shit ‘cause she’s got a couple of good scares under her belt. As if I couldn't beat her ten to one. Someone should tell her swamp chic went out of style two decades ago—at least.”

Miss Argentina eyed him somewhat amusedly, the way a parent would eye a toddler who’d offered them a macaroni necklace or some other kiddie shit.

“Sure, sure,” she moved closer, placing a green hand on his shoulder. “Boss lady wants to see you, stat, and trust me when I say she is in a bad mood, worst I've seen since you killed her.”

Beetlejuice felt his stomach sink, as though the organ had torn itself to shreds and his heart was now doing a funky little tap dance on the remains.

Miss Argentina leaned in closer. “She knows about your _detour_.”

Beetlejuice grimaced. Great. The one thing he was trying to avoid. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he made it out of her office in one piece.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “How mad are we talking?”

“See for yourself, you do not want to keep her waiting.”

Right. Of course he didn't. Still, he didn't move, his mom was...the worst, and frankly, Beetlejuice didn't fancy walking right into smackdown central. He may have been suicidal, but he wasn't insane, or well, he was, but—

“Lawrence,” Miss A just about growled, and he was quick to dip his head.

“I'm going, I'm going, yeesh, testy much?”

With that, she slammed the door shut behind him, leaving him in the soul-sucking, colorless void that was his mother’s office.

Beetlejuice knew without a doubt that his mom hated him.

With the two of them bearing almost no resemblance, he used to pretend he was adopted, that his parents were off somewhere, missing him. He’d told himself that one day when they died, they’d come looking for him, tear him away from his awful, evil mom and hug him, tell him over and over again that they loved him.

That got old fast, but unlike him, Juno never stopped pretending he wasn't her son. As if he was a curse she could rid herself of with the right counterspell. Like he was something she could vanish with a snap of her fingers, and 'poof' no more fuckup of a son.

If only.

Part of him, wait, no, that was a lie, all of him, wished she was still rotting in Big Sandy’s stomach. That’d be a fucking dream. 'Poof' no more shitty alcoholic mom.

Juno was sitting in her high-backed chair when he came in, head bent towards the file she had out in front of her. A file he knew all too well, mostly because it was his, but also because his had got to be the only file that thick. It was aged, splattered with ectoplasm and coffee-stains, singed from the time he’d tried to destroy the damn thing.

Slowly, she raised her head to look at him.

Beetlejuice shuffled awkwardly in place, fighting the urge to stare at her feet. Instead, he kept his eyes on her face.

Her horrible, beady eyes stared back.

“Lawrence,” she said, in that slow, croaking voice of hers. “Have a seat.”

He sat.

On the other side of the desk, she stood. And though Juno was a small woman, small and frail, all jutting angles, she seemed to loom over him.

“Do you know how much I’ve sacrificed for you?” Juno started, and Beetlejuice stifled a groan. He knew her rants well, almost too well, and if history was anything to go by, they’d be here a while.

Beetlejuice opened his mouth, hoping to apologize for his stupid, shitty “detour” and nip the conversation at the bud.

Yeah right. Like there was any chance of _that_ ever happening.

“I never wanted a child,” she continued. “But I still clothed you, I still fed you. I gave you a place to live, a job—honestly, Lawrence—I did the best I could. Yet somehow you always manage to disappoint me.”

Beetlejuice bit his tongue. Clenching his hands into fists, he let his fingernails lengthen into a more natural, clawlike shape. The sharp points dug into the soft flesh of his palms.

“You broke the law when you showed yourself to those breathers, and frankly, I was impressed. Here I was thinking you’d finally grown a spine.”

Juno’s eyes narrowed as she hunched over her desk. She was close enough that Beetlejuice could smell her; cigarettes and mothballs and something that might have once been perfume.

“But no, obviously there’s no chance of that ever happening. I’ll admit I had my suspicions, but I quashed them because there’s no way in hell that my son would end up caring about some stuffy breather family. Oh, but I was wrong, wasn't I? Do you want to know something even more pathetic?”

Beetlejuice shook his head. Picking at the muck that hemmed the cuffs of his jacket, he eyed the floor, the shelves, anything but her face.

“The little breather girl, Lydia, is that her name? You think she actually wants you around! She's good, I’ll give her that, if she managed to convince you that she cares about you, for what, your winning personality?”

“You’ve got it all wrong, I-” Beetlejuice broke off.

“Seriously, Lawrence, you’re as dumb as you look if you think there’s even a snowballs’ chance in hell that little miss Lydia sees you as anything other than a pet. A filthy animal. She hates you for what you did to her family.”

“No, she, she called me back, she—”

“That girl is just like every other stinking breather, concerned only with what you can give her. And I don't blame her," Juno said . "So she’s come to her senses, realized the advantage of having a demon—if you can even call yourself that—on her side. Don't go mistaking self-interest for love. Or did you forget she killed you not two months ago?”

“Sure, it wasn't pretty, but she didn't mean it, she's a kid, you know, and she was scared, she didn't mean to—

"Oh, so you're saying she was afraid of you then? She should be, seeing as you're a complete and utter abomination. And aren't you forgetting the part where she sent you back to the netherworld? Do you think she would have done that if she wanted to play house with a demon?"

"I chose to leave. I wanted—”

 _“I-I-I w-wanted,”_ Juno mocked. “Spit it out, boy.”

Beetlejuice didn't know what he wanted. A family, a dad, except he wasn't entirely sure he even had one of those. Surely there must’ve been someone, someone a little more like him, he guessed. But really, what were the odds of some other chubby, green-haired demon wandering in to claim him like a forgotten wallet or purse.

_“Sorry, yeah, I left my son here a few millennia ago, any chance you guys have seen him?”_

And it wasn't like Juno hadn't made it abundantly clear that his father had never even wanted to be in the picture, that if she’d had the chance, she would’ve done the same. No more bouncing baby Beetlejuice.

“I told her I was gonna find my pops,” he mumbled.

“You lied to her.”

“I guess I did.”

“Trust me, Lawrence. Your father doesn't want anything to do with you.”

“Smart man,” Beetlejuice scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“You’re a screw-up. The breathers knew it too. And Lydia, the poor thing went through the trouble of marrying you just so she could have the pleasure of putting an end to your miserable little life.”

“C’mon,” he said. “You and I both know it wasn't—”

“You will be silent while I'm speaking to you,” she snapped. Beetlejuice couldn't quite manage to hide his flinch. “Do you know how many people said I shouldn't bother with you? Told me it would be perfectly understandable if I dropped you. You’re a grown man for fucks' sake.”

Juno paused, considering him carefully.

“Do you know where I was today?”

Beetlejuice shook his head.

“I was in a meeting with my superiors, and surprise, surprise, they wanted to know what my idiot of a son had gotten himself into this time. Do you want to know what I told them?”

“Not particularly, no. Same old, same old. Probably whined about my ‘unorthodox methods,’ or my ‘horrid stench,’ or a thousand other things that I literally could not give less of a shit about. Is that good enough for you?”

Juno slapped him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Beetlejuice blinked, forcing back tears. Instead, his chest started to ache, as he tried, unsuccessfully, to catch his breath. Which, by the way, was totally stupid all on its own when you take into consideration that no, Beetlejuice never had and never would need air to survive.

“Are you paying attention now?” She asked.

Beetlejuice didn't respond.

“Good,” she said. “When my superiors asked about you. I told them there was no need to worry. In fact, I offered to give them proof. So imagine my surprise when I turned on your tracker to find that not only are you not in central Florida but that you’d gone to pay a visit to that breather girl.

“Do you understand how embarrassing that was for me? That’s why I'm...frustrated with you. My superiors are worried, Lawrence, and they have a right to be.”

“Yeah, and I totally get all that, but I—”

“You aren’t a child anymore. You’ve got to stop letting your emotions get the better for you—especially when it comes to those breathers. I’m giving you another chance because I love you, but I need you to promise me you’ll clean up your act, alright? is that so hard?”

Juno stepped around the desk. Her hand coming to cup his chin, she tilted his head up to look at her, running her free hand through his hair. As always, the display of physical affection sent an odd shiver down his spine, bringing a sticky warmth to his chest.

He nodded.

“Can I trust you? I need to hear you say it.”

“You can,” he said, and his voice came out in a half-rasp, clunky with discomfort. “You can trust me, mom.”

⁂

Time: Fifteen minutes later.

Location: Beetlejuice’s apartment.

And this wasn't like some huge budget musical recreation of a classic movie from the eighties that may have slightly deviated from its source material, so there wasn't going to be a dance number or anything. But there totally should’ve been. Well, not a dance number, his mood was too shit for that, just like, y’know, a teenage protagonist staring sadly off into the distance sort of thing. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently it was, because instead of a cool, flashy set, he had his shitty, tiny apartment. Oh, and also his blood-soaked suit.

Beetlejuice was sat, rather sadly, beside the toilet. Curled into an unnatural ball as more than slightly acidic tears ran down his face (we're talking in the pink here. If you were to litmus test his sad, salty eye water).

And his chest wasn't caving inwards like he was having a heart attack, no, not at all. In short, nothing was terrible and everything was fine.

In short, Beetlejuice was a liar.

The first time the not-breathing thing had happened was back when he was sixteen in Beetlejuice-years, so like, at least eight-hundred in breather years. After a particularly bad guide-training session, and oh boy had Juno been _mad_ , slapped him around like a fucking pinata.

Once she’d tired of that, she’d grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and thrown him out of the house, well, pocket-dimension, but visually, it was pretty much a house.

She’d left him there alone as it got darker and louder and he’d clamped his hands over his ears and it was like he was dying. Like he couldn't catch his breath except it made no sense, ‘cause he never even had a breath to begin with.

Sure, he could breathe if he wanted to, but it wasn't something he did regularly.

Over time, the weird not-being-able-to-breathe thing happened more and more, and slowly, Beetlejuice had learned to ignore it. He figured either someone (likely Juno) had placed a really annoying curse on him, or that it had something to do with his screwy born-dead anatomy.

Neither were comforting options.

The point was, Beetlejuice was used to it.

He just had to ride it out.

He just had to—

Oh shit.

A ping, _the_ ping. The one that signaled a new job hooked its way through his chest, not unlike being summoned, except he could, of course, ignore it if he wanted to. Technically. Except Juno would most definitely exorcise him, and exorcisms, as fun as they sounded, sucked. Beetlejuice knew, having been the witness to multiple and the victim of nearly twice as many. Thankfully (or unthankfully), no one had ever actually succeeded in the destruction of his spirit.

Not for lack of trying.

With the ping, came the location, followed by the name of the recently deceased.

Great, Beetlejuice thought, fan-fucking-tastic.

With a strangled sigh—he still couldn't quite breathe right—Beetlejuice reappeared in the middle of a road full of flashing lights and sirens. In the distance, he heard a woman sobbing.

Broken glass littered the ground, reflecting the sparking red-blues of the surrounding police cars. The road was damp with rain and gasoline.

A car, crumpled in on itself, smoke trailing from underneath the hood, sat in a ditch about five meters to his left. Evidently, it had crashed through the roadside barrier, leaving a tangle of ruined metal behind it, tires still spinning uselessly in the churned up mud.

Beetlejuice, sans his suit jacket, his tie slung lifelessly around his shoulders, suspenders swinging at his waist, took in the scene.

The newly-dead was close, that much was for sure, though the presence was far from malignant.

“Alright,” he started. “Which one of you idiots got drunk as a fucking skunk before—christ on a bicycle." Beetlejuice paused, realizing that for the crash to have happened, the car must’ve been going the wrong way up the road. “That’s a new one. How the hell’d they manage that?”

A boy no older than eight tugged at the cuff of Beetlejuice’s sleeve.

He had milk blonde hair coated in a thick layer of ashy dust and the biggest, bluest eyes Beetlejuice had ever seen on a breather. His face was split open by a gash that cut straight through his forehead and into his hairline, revealing the white of bone, followed by the brain matter his skull had failed to protect. He was cut up pretty badly too, bruised and torn like he'd been recently ejected from a meat grinder.

Beetlejuice winced. The kid was nothing short of terrifying, which yeah, would make a ton of fun for scaring later, but now, it just made him look sad.

“Shit,” Beetlejuice said. “Sorry kid. Looks like you’re coming with me.”

The boy took one look at him and burst into tears.

“Sheesh, I might be scary, but I know overkill when I see it.”

“I want—” the kid started, trailing off into near-incomprehensible sobs.

“What was that?” rather awkwardly, Beetlejuice took the kid’s hand, walking him some distance from the crash.

“My mom,” he said, his hand refusing to leave Beetlejuice’s shirt. “Did you see her? She was hurt really bad, you need to go back for her, get her outta there, please, you need to—”

Beetlejuice felt sick.

“I can't do that, kid,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady around shallow gulps of air he didn't fucking need. “S’not her time to go.”

“You can't just leave her there,” the boy grew angry, a redness coming to his pale cheeks. “She’ll die, you can't fucking—”

“Sorry to break it to you but you’ve got rebar stuck straight through your skull. Do you really think she’s the one you need to be worrying about?”

Beetlejuice tried to give the kid’s palm a comforting squeeze.

The kid tore himself away, punching at Beetlejuice’s arm until he let go.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Beetlejuice muttered, glaring at the kid. “Alright, so you’re dead, sucks to be you, but this really isn't the place for a tantrum.”

As if in response, the boy cried harder. Beetlejuice ran his hand over his face.

“You and me both,” he said.

This was why he rarely, if ever, dealt with kids: he had no fucking idea what to do with them.

“But,” the boy stuttered. “B-but my mom, I need my mom. I can't leave her all by herself, not when—”

Beetlejuice shrugged. More than anything, he wanted to scream at the kid, hurl insults until he was blue in the face. Instead, he settled for a frustrated sigh, taking a piece of chalk out of his pocket and drawing a door on a nearby tree.

“Take it from me, kid, you’re better off without one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight, here's chapter two, posting this in a rush so things might be a tad wonky.
> 
> quick note, from now on, im going to try and update this fic thursdays and sundays so keep an eye out!
> 
> Also, forgot to mention, but this fic is not, and never will be beetlebabes, im all for ship and let ship but, ugh, yeah, can't say im a fan :/
> 
> PLEASE COME YELL @ ME ON TUMBLR (@iswearimnotahorsegirl)


	3. Chapter 3

That Monday, school was a bleak affair.

It had stormed all weekend, and now, though the rain had abated slightly, the sky remained full of dreary clouds, looming in purpled greys like a patchwork quilt, effectively blocking out the sun.

Lydia normally loved this weather.

That morning, however, she’d awoken to what Beetlejuice would call “the headache of her life” and he wouldn't be wrong for saying so. If he was still around, that was. And sure, the headache sucked, but it was his absence that was the true cause of her bad mood.

Some part of her, some stupid immature part of her, had hoped that after Friday’s incident, he’d show up over the weekend. Maybe he’d appear under her bed or in her closet. Wild green hair and he’d grin his too-sharp grin and they’d spend the afternoon throwing rocks at the seagulls that clustered around the McDonalds.

Beetlejuice would love McDonalds.

Of course, none of that had happened, because, as she’d said, it was stupid and unlikely. 

So what if she’d hardly slept for two nights straight, tense with anticipation at the idea of getting her stinky idiot self proclaimed “BFFFF” back? So what if she really fucking missed him? Even if he did come back, it wouldn't be for a while, not when time ran differently in the Netherworld.

For now, she had math to worry about. Trigonometry and the like. The teacher, so busy with 'Sin' and 'Cos' and 'Tan,' seemed to have forgotten to mention why the fuck they should care.

She had bigger issues than some impossible-to-solve math worksheets.

For instance, Jen. And, by extension, Jen’s cronies.

So far, she’d been tripped twice on her way to class, found insults written on her locker, and, far more creatively than the rest, pulled a dead rat out of her backpack.

The last thing might have been Beetlejuice but Lydia had no way of confirming it to be such, so she lumped it in with the rest until she received further clarification. For now, the rat would stay in an old shoebox in the back of her closet until the ground thawed and she could bury it in the backyard.

There was also the matter of the rumors, each more outlandish than the last. No one, it seemed, had a clear idea of what had gone on that Friday afternoon. Some spoke of Lydia casting a spell on the girls, saying she had turned demonic. Others stated that they’d felt a 'strange presence.' And still, others claimed that the damage was a result of a hot, sexy lesbian orgy that had taken place in girls the change room.

Lydia knew Beetlejuice would've loved that one.

Officially, the teachers were calling it a prank gone wrong. Someone had vandalized the changeroom and cut the power, that much they already knew. There was only the matter of finding who’d done it.

Until then, Lydia resolved to keep her head down, and when asked, she’d stated that it was a spell gone wrong. Which, naturally, nobody believed.

And thank god for that.

It didn't stop Lydia from spending her day in a haze. She walked from class to class, growing increasingly anxious as she waited for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did, when she was called down to the office just after the third period.

The punishment was final. Jen, backed up by at least half the gym class, had told the principal that Lydia had acted alone in vandalizing the changeroom. Stating that Lydia had flown into a rage after her team lost the earlier volleyball match.

Yeah right, not even a toddler would have believed that. It wasn't like Lydia was known for 'flying into rages.' Or, well, not yet, anyway.

But believe it they did, with the principal sentencing her to a four-day suspension. Gleefully informing her that the consequences would've been much, much worse if her 'vandalism' hadn't been a first-time offense.

Lydia eyed the floor and wondered when and how the fuck her life had gotten so messed up. Probably right around the time she had summoned a literal demon during her dad’s dinner party.

After the principal finished chewing her out, Lydia was instructed to sit outside the office until a parent came to collect her. The chairs were uncomfortable, the secretary's constant staring even more so.

Lydia bit her lip and swung her legs, backpack in her lap, as she waited for Delia to come and take her home. And when a hand tapped her shoulder, she hardly bothered to look up.

A second tap, this time more insistent.

Lydia raised her head to find Jen seated next to her, an apologetic look on her face.

“Come here often?” The girl asked, fidgeting with her curly ponytail.

“What do you want?” Lydia asked.

“Oh, I—” Jen eyed her shoes, bit her bottom lip as she tapped painted fingernails against the edge of the chair. “Maria ratted me out. I'm waiting for vice principal dildo-head to get out of a meeting.”

The stupid nickname reminded Lydia of something Beetlejuice would say, unwillingly, she smiled.

“What?” Jen asked, tilting her head sideways in an expression reminiscent of a lost puppy.

Lydia would not be fooled.

“Get it over with. Apologies and such. I know that’s why they're making you talk to me.”

Jen scoffed.

“Not a chance, Deetz. I actually wanted to ask about, y’ know, the thing you did. I don't get it. How’d you set all that up in time? And you, you, holy fuck, it was terrifying. I nearly shat my pants,” here, Jen grinned, conspiratorial. “I was thinking you could show me and we could prank the football guys. Jerks, all of them, they totally deserve it.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows. Unsure as to where the conversation was headed.

“While I agree with you on that front. You're delusional if you think you can turn around and go all 'sup, Lydia, I totally didn't physically assault you for no reason, let's be friends!' Your bullshit got me suspended. I can prank those douchebags myself.”

“C’mon, what’s your secret?” Jen said, leaning forwards until they were nose to nose. “I promise I won't tell anyone.”

“Alright,” Lydia said, scanning the hallway for any sign of Delia. When she found the coast clear, she let out a relieved breath before continuing. “You probably won't believe me but I'm friends with this demon called Beetlejuice. He’s a shithead and also a prankster. He’s great. Even if he did try to kill my dad and also my surrogate mother who happens to be a ghost, and then try to marry me because it would make him human. Naturally, I impaled him in my stepmom’s bad art. Which made Beetlejuice’s mom, like, really mad, so she showed up just so she could yell at him, which freaked him out so he got his pet worm to eat her. True story.”

Jen crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“Fine. Don't tell me. Blowjob, really? You thought I’d believe that shit?”

Lydia snorted.

“I told you you wouldn't believe me.”

“Yeah, but I had no idea your story would be so goddamn crazy. Like, okay, blowjob demon won me over, I can't hate you.”

“I’ve been told I'm an acquired taste.”

“I can see that,” Jen said, as her features pulled into a frown. “I'm sorry, by the way, for the shit I pulled. I was like, a massive dickhole to you for no reason. I actually really like the way your dress, it’s—”

“A bold take on an old aesthetic?”

“Well, I was going to cool, but yeah.”

Lydia grinned.

“Both work. And I still hate you for getting me suspended.”

“Fair enough,” Jen nodded. Her eyes flicking to the vice principal who had emerged from his meeting and was coming their way. “See you around, Deetz.”

“I hope not,” Lydia said, but she was smiling as she said it.

Once Jen was gone, she dropped her eyes to her boots, rubbing at her uncomfortably warm cheeks.

“Weird,” she muttered to herself.

Maybe she’d made a kinda-sorta friend after all.

⁂

“Suspended?” Delia said, sounding entirely befuddled. “For four days? I don't see how you could've managed it.”

“Chaos follows me. Beej would've been—” she cut herself off, glancing sideways to see if Delia had noticed.

Thankfully, the older woman didn't comment, her eyes remaining on the road.

“I'm not upset with you,” Delia said, after a few minutes of silence. “Your father will be angry enough for the both of us. But if there's something going on that I should know about…”

Delia trailed off. Lydia was unbothered, her stepmom had a habit of doing this, especially when she had a lot on her mind. Most of the time, it seemed like Delia was off in some other world, only briefly returning to their own when she saw fit. Lydia didn't mind, in fact, it was one of the things she liked about Delia, the way she could see above all the bullshit.

Or maybe it was because she was so caught up in her own, separate load of bullshit that she hardly had time to bother with the usual problems.

“I _am_ a life coach, after all,” she finally continued. “Well, ex-life coach, but I like to think you never really lose the skill set.”

She said that as if it took more than a two-hour online seminar followed by a ten minute 'guided reflection' to become certified as a life coach.

“Right.”

“So?”

“It was nothing. A stupid mistake—I promise it won't happen again.”

“It better not,” Delia replied. “I don't think your father could handle another one of your...your kooky shenanigans. How _do_ you get up to these sorts of things? When I was a kid, all I had going on was the occasional party and the feminist agenda.”

“I'm probably cursed or something. There’s like, a ninety-five percent chance I pissed off a minor deity in a past life.”

“Hmm,” Delia said. “That does explain your aura. There’s definitely something to that theory.”

Lydia stifled a laugh. And hell, if demons were real, why the fuck not, right? The rules were clearly already backwards.

“While we’re chatting, Charles did tell me I should establish some ground rules,” Delia said, suddenly serious. “You’re grounded, obviously. Two weeks, minimum.”

“I haven't the faintest idea of what that entails.”

Lydia had never been grounded before. It wasn't her mom’s style. And when it was just her and her dad, he’d hardly paid enough attention to her to notice all the shit she was getting up to. Back then, she could've shown up to school naked and covered in rainbow body paint and her dad would've hardly batted an eyelash.

Things were different now.

“No friends over, for one,” Delia raised a manicured finger. “Which, now that I think about it—”

“Yeah, that won't be a problem.”

“No sneaking out, either, if you want to go somewhere, there needs to be an adult with you, a _trusted_ adult.”

“Where the hell would I find a random adult willing to drive me places? I'm fifteen.”

“Lydia,” Delia said, a facsimile of strictness she could never hope to achieve.

“I'm just saying.”

Delia gave her a look.

“No TV either, or computer—unless it’s for schoolwork—Charles already asked the Maitlands to keep an eye on you. You’re going to help them clean out the basement as it seems there’s some junk down there that needs sorting.”

“Brilliant.”

“I suppose it is,” Delia said, completely missing the sarcasm. “I’ve actually been meaning to do that myself. Do you remember what I said about setting up a darkroom down there? You need your own space, and isn't it time we put the basement to good use?”

Lydia nodded, sure, she wasn't all the way on board with another one of Delia’s outlandish ideas. How the hell did one even set up a darkroom? But for her father’s sake, she was willing to try. Especially when she factored in how angry he’d be about her (undeserved) four-day suspension.

“Great idea, Delia,” she said, and it was hard to ignore Delia’s excited grin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

⁂

Upon arriving home, Lydia’s good mood quickly dissipated.

For entirely obvious reasons. Her father’s anger, the Maitlands disappointment, the tension she still felt from whatever had happened with Barbra on Friday. Not that either of them wanted to bring up that particular incident, embarrassing as it was.

In fact, once Lydia retreated to her room, she was met with the fact that things remained the same as they always were.

All she had to look forward to over the next four days was helping the Maitlands clear out the basement. And after that, going back to face the hellhole that was her school. If the rumors had been bad that morning, who knew what she’d have to deal with come Friday?

Frustrated, Lydia flopped back onto her bed.

She stewed, shutting off her bedside light and pulling her blankets over her head. It was only six in the evening but it was clear to her that the day had little more to offer.

She told herself tomorrow would be better. A lie, but a comforting lie all the same. As Lydia lay there, melancholy, her head pounding with exhaustion, sleep began to blur behind her eyes, and soon enough, she was snoring. Cocooned in a mass of blankets as the rain lashed softly against her window, punctuated only by the occasional clap of thunder.

And then there was color. Improbably, no, impossibly bright light, like someone had stuck sparklers behind her eyes and burned them ‘till she saw stars. Sound came only in bursts, but she knew the scene all too well.

In her hands, Lydia held Delia’s stupid, terrible, ugly art. It glinted in the light, shifting beneath her grip as if the metal had come alive. Hot to the touch, it pricked at her fingertips.

She was wearing a red wedding dress.

Beetlejuice, uncharacteristically neat. His hair flattened against his scalp with what must've been at least a vat of grease. Brown eyes, and pink skin, his chest rising and falling when he breathed.

Human.

Lydia shoved Delia’s shitty sculpture straight through his back, watching as his eyes widened when he realized what she’d done. As blood darkened his suit, his hands. As his lips twisted into a sardonic smirk because above all else, he found this funny. To him, death with little more than a joke.

Static pulsed against Lydia's ears, increasing until it became a near-deafening crescendo. The lights grew brighter and brighter, so bright that she had to shut her eyes, so loud she had to clamp her hands over her head.

Unable to hear anything but the wet squelch of metal pulled from the flesh, of her shitty, stupid, horrible best friend dying and he didn't care because he was a fucking idiot, he had to be.

That was the part where she’d realized he was human. That his curse, whatever it was, had been lifted, that he was as flesh and blood and bone as the rest of him and Lydia had gone and taken all that away from him.

After she’d killed him, Beetlejuice had reanimated almost instantly. A grin on his face, he looked almost relieved, shocked and surprised but also like he couldn't give two shits about the whole thing.

But in the dream, this dark, hideous version of reality, he just lay there, unmoving as the blood drained from his body like sap from a tree. Spraying and gushing, and whatever she did, tearing at her skirt to form makeshift bandages, there was nothing she could do to stop the bleeding.

In a panic, Lydia reached for his hand, found no pulse, no sign of life, moving to his neck, she found no pulse there either. Desperately, she lifted his eyelids to find only glassy white. She hardly noticed the blood she'd smeared across his face.

Beetlejuice was gone, leaving nothing behind but hot, stinking blood.

Lydia jolted back to awareness, a scream building in her chest.

She jackknifed upwards, like a free diver breaching the surface, sucking in hungry lungfuls of air.

She switched on the light, stunned to find that it was almost four in the morning. That she had slept without interruption for nearly ten hours. Next, she brought her hands to her face, inspecting them for any signs of gore.

The dream had felt so real.

Dazed, Lydia half-convinced herself she could see red rivulets tracking the clean, white flesh of her palms. Her heart thudding sharply against her chest, her voice rasping when she tried to speak.

She had to check, had to see if—

It wasn't like she'd not had nightmares about it before. Of course, she had. But this was by far the worst as if all the pent up stress and anxiety had accumulated, grown into this sickening product of her imagination, blurring reality and the senseless fiction of the mind.

Lydia opened her mouth, when she spoke, her voice was rasping, sore as if she had been screaming, long and loud, her tongue tasting of bile.

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice.”

It was over in a second.

And as the seconds stretched longer and longer, Lydia allowed panic to overtake her. She’d never had to wait this long before. Usually, saying his name was like saying the name of a pet, he wouldn't hesitate to come running. Hell, she could usually feel his excitement pulsing through the bond his name seemed to forage between himself and the summoner. The unnatural racing of his thoughts through her mind as if they were her own.

That night, she felt nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for the lack of beej in this chapter, i promise, he'll be in the next one!
> 
> im honestly surprised by the reception this fic has gotten :0, your comments and kudos mean the whole to me (literally) and im really glad yall are enjoying my semi-coherent brain fart of a fanfic.
> 
> in other news, this fic has been a bitch to edit, like, holy shitballs who knew editing was such a pain in the ass?
> 
> befriend me on tumblr @iswearimnotahorsegirl


	4. Chapter 4

He found Lydia in the closet. 

And he’d tried to hold it off as long as he could, to ignore the summons that whispered up and down his spine, itchy and gross and he knew, knew, knew it was her, knew his mom would, would—

Well, it wouldn't be good, that was all.

He wouldn't go back, couldn't go back. He couldn't fucking—

It hurt the longer he fought it.

The words gutted him like a fishhook. A painful tugging sensation that started in his stomach and spread upwards across his ribcage. A noose around his neck, the summons refused to let him go, refused to let him breathe.

Beetlejuice slumped over where he sat. Panting, he dug his nails into the fabric of the futon as if he could somehow tether himself to the object to avoid being summoned to her side.

At that moment, Beetlejuice fucking hated her.

He could taste blood on his tongue now, acerbic, and he shut his eyes. Knowing there was nothing he could do to stop himself from being summoned, he relented, preparing himself to give her a real talking to because jeez, it had hardly been a day and she was already clamoring to see him.

Funny, that if this had happened earlier, before his bitch of an undead mom came rip-roaring back into his life like a fucking bulldozer, Beetlejuice would've been overjoyed by the extra attention. As always, he loved being the star of the show, which was, it was actually ironic with him having been named after a star and all but—

With that, he appeared in her bedroom.

To his surprise, he found no one, just an empty room that smelled overwhelmingly of breather.

The crying came next, which, eww, there was nothing Beetlejuice hated more than crying. Nothing except possibly like, okay, three things: the mailman, his mom, and birds. All unrelated incidents that he did not want nor need to get into.

But crying was definitely number four on that list.

“Lyds,” he said, somewhat hesitantly. “C’mon kid, you know I'm no good at dealing with overblown breather emotions—huge mistake on your part—shoulda called daddy chucklefuck or mommy Maitland ‘cause I'm totally out of my depth here.”

Hell, Beetlejuice was on a whole other planet.

She giggled, the half-hysterical sound of someone who’d been crying and was apt to start all over again if he didn't intervene somehow.

“Where were you?” She asked, her voice broken and raspy as his. “I didn't know it could take that long. I started thinking that—”

“C’mon, Lyds, a big bad demon here,” Beetlejuice gestured to himself. “No way could some puny numbskull take the piss outta this guy.”

“I didn't know that,” Lydia said. “I didn't fucking know that.”

She froze, her eyes welling with sudden tears as her nose scrunched like, like a baby bunny of some shit and—

“I thought you were dead,” she mumbled “I had this dream and I—it felt so real, Beej—it was like—”

She broke off to wipe at her face, rubbing roughly at her eyes as soundless tears slipped down her cheeks.

Beetlejuice felt a sudden stab of pity. Actual pity. When was the last time he’d felt like shitty little emotion? he could hardly fucking remember, all he know was that it sucked major dick.

Caring about people was the total anthesis of fun. Caring about _breathers_ was even worse. All fleshy and breakable, like a particularly misshapen china tea set, only more fragile and useless.

Still, Beetlejuice must've done _something_ right, because a split-second later, Lydia came barreling out of the closet to wrap him in yet another hug. Two hugs in two days, huh, definitely his all-time record when it came to platonic displays of affection.

“So,” he started, patting her back. She was so much smaller than him, fragile like a baby bird and he hated it, the fact that he could kill her so, so easily, it was fucking freaky.

“Whaddya need me for?” He said, cognizant of the fact that she had yet to break the hug and was now sobbing loudly into his shoulder.

“Beej,” she said. “Beej, I killed you.”

“Yeah,” Beetlejuice said, at a loss. “Anticlimactic as hell, right? I mean, what were the writers thinking?”

He paused.

“Hurt like a bitch though. Oh!” he grinned, unbuttoned his shirt as quickly as he could, given that his hands were shaking from the shitton of coke he’d done the second he’d gotten back to his apartment.

“Check this nifty souvenir.”

Beetlejuice jabbed a finger through the hole in his chest, watched it sink in ‘till the third knuckle. It ached, and he pulled the appendage free with a sickening plop.

“That never hurts less.”

“Gross,” Lydia replied. “Beetlejuice, that’s super fucking gross.”

“I know, right? Even by my standards, it’s like, cataclysmically disgusting.”

That seemed to set her off all over again, and Beetlejuice watched as Lydia dissolved into snotty giggles.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Admittedly all the hugging and crying stuff made him nauseous. Now that she’d calmed, he knew he had to find a way to make a semi-graceful exit before his mom brought the entire netherworld down on him.

A rational part of him knew he was too late, and he was better off never going back at all. Not like that was in any way a viable option, but it was nice to think about. Hell, maybe he’d take up a hobby, other than, y’know, being generally obnoxious and occasionally scaring someone so hard their heart stopped. He could also play the ukulele (sort of), and everybody knew he did a mean dance number.

Beetlejuice shook his head to clear it. It wasn't like it was something worth thinking about.

He just hoped Juno wouldn't curse him too hard when he got back.

“Beej,” Lydia looked up at him. “Beej, am I a bad person?”

Beetlejuice, shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck and feeling moss flake off beneath his fingers.

“Let me get this straight. You, Lydia Deetz, summoned me, the ghost with the most, a bona fide shit-talking, fire breathing demon, to ask this—and let me remind you: literal demon—if you're a bad person.”

“That’s right.”

“Jeez, Lyds, it’s not like I'm a philosophy major.”

“Yeah but—”

“Fine,” Beetlejuice said. “I’ll play ball.

“To answer that question, you’d first have to decide if unconscious action qualifies as evil. And if intentions have any sway in the matter. You also—and here’s the important bit—have to figure out why the fuck anyone would care to ask themselves those questions.”

Beetlejuice grinned.

“But hey, I say toss that steaming load of bullshit out the window and into the gutter where it belongs. To hell with it. You murdered one person, and it hardly even counted—like killing an old person or a child under five—I mean, yeah, sure things could've gone better, but if you think about it, it also could've gone worse. Take it from me, kid, things can always go worse.”

He was ripped, quite viciously, mind you, from his delightful train of thought as Lydia continued to sob. Goddamn. The kid burst into tears more often than Beetlejuice broke into song and that was saying something.

“Aww shit,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Hey, hey, hey don’t cry. Ugh. Uh, okay, wanna hear about the time I drank holy water? Or the time a bird ate my hand? How about the time I scared the mailman so bad he shit his pants? God, that was classic.”

Plopping down onto the bed, Beetlejuice eyed Lydia. She looked the same as she always did, a walking, talking cloud of teen angst in the shape of a person. He patted the space beside him, signaling for her to sit.

She did, leaving a considerable amount of space between then as she pulled her comforter around her shoulders.

After a few minutes of silence, he felt her hand on his shoulder.

“Can you stay?”

“What makes you think I'm going anywhere?”

She shrugged.

“I dunno. You seem pretty out of it.”

That would be the coke. There was also the matter of the all-consuming terror at the thought of Juno popping into Lydia’s room at any given moment and killing them both. She’d probably kill the Maitlands too, and Chucklefuck and Deborah. And Jesus, an eternity spent in the netherworld with those guys, yeah, no thanks.

Even if the Maitlands happened to be like, the hottest people he’d ever set his undead eyes upon. Not like anyone looked that great in the netherworld or anything, but he had a sense that the Maitlands were unusually attractive regardless of his admittedly low standards.

Lydia nudged his shoulder.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, demons do, in fact, dream of undead sheep. One time, I smoked like, a shitload of pot, passed out for a full forty-eight hours, not as fun as you would think.”

“No, not—” Lydia cut off, looking at him, all deer in the headlights. “I mean, nightmares about the, _the thing_ that happened.”

Beetlejuice froze.

He did, yes, of fucking course he did, not that anything short of torture would make him admit such a thing. But yeah, sure, there was a reason he avoided sleep the way breathers avoided the plague.

That first night had been the worst.

After he’d gone home, aching all over and not in a fun way, more like he’d been run over by a semi-truck. He’d stripped, ditching the shitty red suit, skin sticky with blood as he ran his hands through his hair, biting down on his lip to stop himself from crying.

Beetlejuice hadn't even bothered to change. Instead, he curled up on the couch in his bloodied boxers. Spent hours staring sullenly at the TV as it blared infomercial after infomercial.

A purple-skinned demon with curling horns droned on about post-mortem insurance ( _"untimely death? Get compensation before it’s too late! Call the number on your screen in the next fifteen minutes for fifteen percent off your initial consultation!”_ )

The dream had gone something like this:

Beetlejuice, his clones, bright, white-hot lights, hands grabbing him by the shoulders and he was spun around to face...himself, but different, not a clone, just, different. Beetlejuice slightly to the left, if that made sense.

Same deal, though; green hair, pale skin, grimy as a motherfucker.

_“Ladies and gentlemen!”_ Beetlejuice 2.0 drawled, an amicable grin splitting his face. _“Welcome to DID HE DO IT, where ‘torture and pain’ is the name of the game! And tonight, we have a very special guest.”_

Beetlejuice found himself standing under a spotlight, the vague suggestion of an audience panned out around him. This was nothing like the usual audience, those guys fucking loved him, these assholes, not so much.

They jeered, yelled, threw rotten fruit.

_“Put your hands together for Lawrence B. Shoggoth! Rumor has it, he killed not one, not two, but THREE breathers. It says here he killed his BFFFF, Lydia Deetz with his bare hands. Now that's what I call dedication!”_

Beetlejuice 2.0 had turned to him, amber eyes glittering with veiled antagonism and—

Back the fuck up. Stop the presses. Beetlejuice had seen the same look on Juno’s face enough times to know that whatever was coming next would not be good.

_“So Lawrence, age-old question: did you do it?”_

Beetlejuice found he couldn't answer.

_“Wrong answer, buddy.”_ Beetlejuice 2.0 slapped him hard on the shoulder. _“Well, this ones’ open and shut, folks, and I can assure you, heads WILL roll, or, one head in particular.”_

That was when Beetlejuice had realized he was dreaming. Beheading was so last century.

Somehow, the knowledge hadn't staved off any of his terror, especially when the crowd started to cheer louder than before. Beetlejuice winced when a rotten tomato exploded against the side of his face.

_“Would ya look at that? Crowds’ already raring to go,” _Beetlejuice 2.0 leaned in, all yellow teeth and empty eyes and fuck, fuck, fuck.__

___“Spoiler alert: they think you did it.”_ _ _

__He’d woken up, after that, sweating like a pig in a bacon factory or some other charmingly disgusting simile._ _

__According to Juno, born deads had an eidetic memory. A claim that Beetlejuice could back up with one-hundred percent assurance. More of a curse than a blessing, especially when it came to nightmares about killing your BFFF._ _

__Especially when it came to—_ _

__“Beetlejuice,” Lydia said, tugging at his arm, and Beetlejuice had the feeling she’d been trying to get his attention for a hot minute._ _

__She bunched her knees to her chest, shadowed by the half-light._ _

__“Do you get them? The nightmares, I mean.”_ _

__Beetlejuice rubbed at his eyes._ _

__“All the time.”_ _

__“Holy shit. Really?”_ _

__“Sure, messes with my circadian rhythms like you wouldn't believe.”_ _

__"How do you, you know, deal? I haven't gotten more than five hours since..."_ _

__The way she said it made Beetlejuice feel bad. Not like, bad-bad or anything, about a solid eight out of ten on the shit-scale._ _

__"No idea. Who cares? Sleeping is for losers anyways."_ _

__"Yeah, but I—Beej, I need sleep."_ _

__She did have eyebags to rival the undead. Namely him, he was the undead who she was rivaling. Not a great look._ _

__"You could always try drugs," he said. "Those'll keep you up no problem."_ _

__"No thanks." Lydia made a face. "I'm not looking to get hooked on coke until I'm at least eighteen."_ _

__"Smart. That way you'll go straight to prison instead of some dumb kiddie detention center."_ _

__Lydia was silent, and for a moment, Beetlejuice was convinced she'd nodded off. He tested the waters by lifting himself from the mattress, hoping that he'd be able to teleport away without her noticing._ _

__"Stay," she said, muffled by her comforter. To emphasize her point, she punched his arm. "Please. You'll scare the nightmares away."_ _

__Lydia slumped against him, her head resting on his shoulder, face obscured by a tangle of dark hair._ _

__After what seemed like an eternity of silent panic over the unexpected touch, Beetlejuice relaxed against her. (Did breathers do this often? Like, on a regular basis? It was, well, it was exhausting but nice, nice too. Though Beetlejuice vowed to never admit it out loud to anyone.)_ _

__“C’mere, Beej.”_ _

__“Like, a hug? Cause it’s, I mean, you don’t have to. I’m like, gross and stuff, smell like—“_ _

__“Beej?”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“Shut up.”_ _

__And that was that._ _

__⁂_ _

__Lydia was asleep in seconds._ _

__And once Beetlejuice dealt with the awkward task of maneuvering his shoulder out from under her head, pulling the covers over her as he went, he stopped to glare at her sleeping face._ _

__“Godfuckingdammit,” he muttered._ _

__Why the fuck did anyone bother with anything?_ _

__Earlier, the other day, she’d called him her brother, which, weird, especially considering the whole marriage thing. He admired her ability to somehow make the situation even more creepy than it already was. And Beetlejuice liked to think he’d reformed somewhat since his initial disastrous summoning but he knew that was pretty much just a lie he told himself so he felt less like a total and utter sack of shit._ _

__For realsies, though, Beetlejuice didn't know much about being a brother but he had an idea that it meant something. That he was supposed to protect her, but how could he do that if he couldn't even protect himself from his shitty old mom?_ _

__Speaking of shitty old mom..._ _

__As if on cue, he felt a telltale tugging at his chest._ _

__“—tlejuice.”_ _

__He appeared in her office before she had the chance to finish her summons._ _

__Landing unceremoniously on top of her desk, Beetlejuice sent papers and pens flying as he tumbled to the floor with a cut off shout._ _

__He stood, startled, trying to force a look of defiance to his features. His hair, likely a terrified white, was most definitely giving him away._ _

__The first thing that hit him was the smell._ _

__Liquor. A smell he’d hated since before he could remember, back when he only understood that the funny smell meant shattered glass and screaming. Baby-Beetlejuice, unable to escape as he tried so desperately to get away from her; it was how he had discovered he could teleport._ _

__He wasn't a regular child, undead as he was. To Juno, his status as a born-dead was an excuse, like just because the cuts and bruises would be gone within minutes instead of days, she was allowed to hurt him however she wanted._ _

__He remembered running, running up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, his foot, catching on the top step, the resulting tumble, his head crunching against the floor, and then, and then nothing._ _

__It hadn't even hurt._ _

__Beetlejuice eyed the bottle held in Juno’s slack grasp. The way she was looking at him, her eyes dark with barely-concealed rage._ _

__She took a shaky step towards him, stopped._ _

__“You were with that breather girl, weren't you?” She said, prodding his chest with an outstretched finger for emphasis._ _

__Beetlejuice ducked his head, choosing to remain silent._ _

__And even as a grown adult with, with what? Not much, to be honest, but he was still—he shouldn't have been scared._ _

__“What? Nothing to say to me?” Juno's gaze moved up and down his body. “Do you honestly think she wants you around? She's using you, boy, clear as day."_ _

__Beetlejuice shut his eyes, fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears._ _

__Juno laughed._ _

__“You do, don't you? Like some breather pet.” Juno swayed suddenly, gripping his collar to keep herself upright._ _

__In her drunken rage, she hardly seemed to notice how badly he was shaking._ _

__“I'm telling you right now, Lawrence, no one will ever love you.” Juno's grip grew tighter as she tugged his head downwards until they were nose to nose. “Even I don't love you. And you're my own fucking son. Do you really think those breathers give two shits about you?”_ _

__She paused, breathing heavily._ _

__“I mean look, look at you. You’re a freak of nature, an abomination. And it’s your father’s fault, all his fucking fault.”_ _

__Beetlejuice took a step backward, shoulders hitting up against the wall behind him._ _

__“Well if you told me something, anything about him, if you just—”_ _

__“Shut up,” she muttered. “If you want to know about him so badly, I’ll tell you. But only if you stop this disgusting display of emotion—are you crying?”_ _

__Beetlejuice shook his head as hard as he could, trying his best to blink away tears._ _

__Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, sharp fingernails digging into his flesh. Drunk and angry and in that moment, he felt like a child again, the stupid, defenseless child he’d been when she—_ _

__When she hurt him. Over and over again. Told him he’d ruined her, that it was his fault, everything was his fault. She’d kept it hidden at first, acted as though she was the perfect portrait of motherly affection when anyone else was around. Eventually, she'd stopped caring if anyone was watching, stopped caring if she—_ _

__“Your father was a monster, Lawrence. Which makes you one too. And me, forever wanting to, to—” she trailed off. “We fit together nicely, don't we? A whole family of monsters. You belong here, with me, because we’re the same, you and I, we deserve each other.”_ _

__“I stuck around, didn't I? You can't blame a guy for wanting to know who—”_ _

__“It’s not like that.”_ _

__“What?” Beetlejuice blinked. “What do you mean, 'it's not like that? I’ve got to have a dad. Are you trying to tell me that I just, that I poofed into existence like fucking baby Jesus himself? ‘Cause I'm not buying it.”_ _

__“You have a choice to make,” Juno said. “You can stay here in the netherworld, stay here and maybe I can arrange a meeting of sorts with your father, or you can leave, go back to those breathers and their stuffy little house, but believe me boy, when I say such a choice will have consequences.”_ _

__“I don't know why I can't just—”_ _

__“They’re a distraction, that’s all they are, all they’ll ever be, and you can't afford to have them getting in your way. Don't you want to know more about your father? I’ll tell you everything as long as you help me deal with those pesky little—”_ _

__“You want me to kill them,” he said, equal parts horrified and stunned._ _

__“Gets them out of the way, doesn't it? And I should think that by now, you know where you belong.”_ _

__Her nails dug deeper into his flesh._ _

__“You’re insane,” Beetlejuice said. “And I know it doesn't mean much to you, but I'm your kid—flesh and blood—you can't just—”_ _

__Juno’s form seemed to blur around the edges, amorphous before flaring back to her original shape. When she reformed, her eyes were steely with range, her cold, dead hands gripping his hair._ _

__“Why don't you see that I'm doing this for your own good?”_ _

__Beetlejuice felt anger settle in his chest. She’d said that same thing to him several times before and never, not once, had it been true. And maybe he’d let it slide when he had nothing to lose, but now, now that he had Lydia, someone who saw him, who really saw him, he wasn't willing to let it go any longer._ _

__“Fuck you, mom,” Beetlejuice said. “My own good? That's all you fucking say. What about the time you pulled me out of school because it was—your words, not mine—a waste of time. Or when you—”_ _

__“Enough,” Juno said. “You will stop this juvenile display of emotions right now and not a second later.”_ _

__With that, she released her hold on him, and, as Beetlejuice nearly sank to his knees with relief, she picked up the bottle from her desk, watching him calmly as she drank._ _

__Beetlejuice's chest grew sharp with the false need for air._ _

__He stiffened, not now, this couldn't be happening now. But as much as he fought to suppress it, the feeling only doubled in strength. Beetlejuice forced himself to take one rasping breath after the next, praying to god-slash-satan that it would go away._ _

__Juno whirled to face him, the bottle held in slack fingers._ _

__“What the hell is wrong with you, boy? All that time spent with breathers, did you forget you don't need air?”_ _

__“I—” Beetlejuice started, stopped as his throat seemed to swell and he collapsed to his knees._ _

__“What the hell did you do to me?” he managed after several seconds._ _

__Juno regarded him with a cold sort of detachment._ _

__“I didn't do anything, Lawrence. It’s not my fault you were always a screw up.”_ _

__“No, please, I—”_ _

__With that, Juno swung the bottle like a bat, catching him sideways in the head and spraying chunks of broken glass in every direction._ _

__Beetlejuice always forgot how strong Juno was. Strong enough to send a grown man sprawling. His shoulder smarting dully as ectoplasm ran down the side of his face, glassy shrapnel slicing easily through the flesh of his palms._ _

__“I need an answer,” she said, a cat toying with a particularly terrified mouse._ _

__Beetlejuice mumbled something, his hands held to his head in an attempt to staunch the ectoplasm that spilled like tar over his fingers. Soon enough, the skin would knit itself back together, but right then, all he could feel was sticky wetness down his cheek, clotting in his hair._ _

__“Speak louder, boy.”_ _

__“I'm, I'm, I'm not going to kill Lydia.”_ _

__“You idiot,” she just about roared. “Can't you see that you're making a huge mistake?”_ _

__Juno pulled open the liquor cabinet to the left of her desk. She selected a bottle full of something that smelt more like rotted blood than alcohol._ _

__“Very well,” she said, in a low, calm voice. “But I told you there’d be consequences.”_ _

__Juno tensed, and before Beetlejuice knew what was happening, he was flung backward, leaving what must have been a sizable dent in the wall._ _

__He let out a muffled shout as she chanted words in a language he didn't recognize._ _

__But by the sudden wind, the ominous lilt of her voice, as if spoken from the mouths of thousands, Beetlejuice knew where this was going._ _

__Additionally, Beetlejuice had no idea how the hell he could stop her._ _

__Panic and fear had accumulated into an alarming buzz, drowning out all sound. Desperate for something, anything, even for the smallest bit of relief, Beetlejuice wrapped his arms around himself. Hands over his ears, he clamped his eyes shut and willed himself to teleport away._ _

__It didn't work._ _

__Caught up in his own terror, Beetlejuice hardly heard the rumbling as the walls began to shake, as the floor cracked open beneath his feet. What he did notice was the almost regretful expression on her face as he plummeted into solid blackness, through the gap she’d torn in the very fabric of the netherworld._ _

__And maybe it was just his imagination, wishful thinking if you will, but the last thing he saw was her mouth form the words _‘I'm sorry,’_ and then he was gone._ _

__I'm sorry too, mom, he thought._ _

__He landed hard, knocking the wind from his lungs—not that his lungs fucking needed wind or anything of the sort. The only thing on his mind was that wherever he was, they better have a hell of a complimentary breakfast buffet._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter four. Idk, i cried writing this, it's fine.
> 
> Side note, im kinda writing three fics rn and sleeping 0% of the time so im sorry if this chapter is sort of, i want to say weird but it's Beej so that's a given, whatever, what im trying to say is im running on no sleep and enough caffeine to kill a human child so there's that.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! I love you guys more than anything and im literally begging for you to come bother me on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) also, hey, this fic has no betas, idk how to get betas or if i even want em but grammar isnt my strong suit so it might end up coming to that lmao.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few days, time slowed to a crawl. 

On Wednesday, Lydia’s dad had gone to the school to pick up her notes, as well as a few things she’d left in her locker. He’d stated that if she wanted to be ungrounded, she would focus on getting her work done, stay in her room, and refrain from making even a peep.

Lydia had told him that wouldn't be a problem.

And aside from the overabundance of homework, Lydia had the Maitlands to deal with. The two had taken to trailing her around the house, offering up unlikely excuses whenever she called them out on their stalking. And frankly, it was more than a little irritating. She was fifteen, for fucks sake, she didn't need a goddamn babysitter.

The following Friday saw Lydia knee-deep in basement-junk.

Boxes full of shit, basically. Shit that her dad intended on putting in storage once they sorted through it. Shit that had been sitting unattended for months.

Needless to say, it was far from the most stimulating work, even if the Maitlands seemed to think so. Cherry smiles never leaving their faces as they ogled the secondhand trash.

That was the Maitlands for you.

What was even worse was the mindless sorting gave Lydia far too much time to reflect on The Thing.

You know the one.

The Thing where she’d gone and summoned Beetlejuice into her room in the middle of the night, and yeah, resoundingly stupid move on her part.

If the nightmare hadn't been quite so sickeningly palpable, Lydia knew she'd hate herself for it. Instead, she thought back to Beetlejuice, the way he'd been, well, odd. Eyes glazed over as he spoke, as if he'd gone somewhere deep inside his head.

Like she'd said: odd, even if odd wasn't the best word for it, as the word could be used to describe his state at any given moment, but he’d been off, that was for sure. Still, the guy was a demon who lived in the real-world equivalent of hell, maybe Lydia ought to cut him some slack.

It would’ve been easier to move on if not for the singular thought, replaying through her mind like a broken record. Over and over again until she’d just about gone mad.

Lydia couldn't remember the color his hair had been that night. The room had been dark, for one, and she could've sworn it was it’s usual green but her conviction was soon replaced by a haze of doubt.

So she puzzled and obsessed, all while trudging through her mess of a basement until—

Until she found a box.

A box full of her mother’s things.

Right up to that point, Lydia had thought, no, Lydia had been sure her dad had thrown away most of Dead Mom’s stuff. Left her belongings out on the curb where they’d fallen victim to an overzealous garbageman.

But no, apparently he’d crammed them in the basement instead, stuffed a box labeled ‘storage.' A box that wilted with water damage, cotton candied in cobwebs and Lydia, Lydia—

She scooped it up and went to find Barbara.

Barbara who was upstairs, having gone to grab more garbage bags. She whirled around, alarmed, when Lydia came running.

“Look what I found!” Lydia said, dropping the box on the kitchen table. “Dead Mom’s old shit. I can't believe dad didn't tell me about any of this. Actually, I can't believe he _kept_ any of this.”

“You want me to help you go through it?” Barbara said, immediately backtracking. “Or is this, as Delia would say, a journey you need to go on alone?”

Lydia snorted.

“I think I got it handled. I need a bit to—”

“Process?” Barbara said. “Because that’s perfectly understandable, I know when Adam lost his parents it was, it was hard. You do whatever you need to do to feel okay.”

“Yeah, I—thanks," Lydia said, relieved. And nice as Barbara was, truth be told, Lydia was not good at these kinds of conversations. "I'm going to my room now."

“You call me if you need me,” Barbara said, ruffling her hair.

And with that, Lydia darted up the stairs. The box was heavy against her chest, full of trinkets and dresses and shit, shit, this was going to be so good.

At least, that’s what she’d thought. Right up until she dropped the box on her bed, pulled out an old photo album, and began to page through it.

Lydia, age five, a tiny pale thing with blonde hair and wide brown eyes sat on her dad’s shoulders while her mom held his hand. A smile that stretched across her face, crinkling her nose.

She kept going. Age seven, eight, the family trip to Disney world, and even if her mom had feigned hatred of it, called the place capitalist and exploitative and a thousand other worlds, she grinned brilliantly in every picture and Lydia knew she hadn't meant a single one of those things.

Because—

Fuck.

Age twelve, family reunion. Skip back a little, baby Lydia with the dog, Walker, had been his name. Forward again and her mom started to look sick.

Photographic evidence of the inevitability of death, the fragility of life. Lydia startled as something warm and wet plopped onto the paper.

She realized then that she was crying.

And she was seconds from crumpling the photos in her fists, every picture that showed the slow horrible descent into illness, and fuck, fuck, fuck.

Lydia scrubbed at her eyes. She knew now why her dad had never shown her this, why she shouldn't have bothered in the first place because nothing was ever going to be the same again so why did she keep _trying_.

She wanted to say she sat there. Sat there, and self-destructed as the rain, which had yet to let up, pounded at her roof, pathetic fallacy. And she wanted to say it was poetic, she wanted to say it was—

Ow.

Something collided with Lydia’s shoulder. Throwing her off the bed and landing on top of her, a wince, a muffled grunt as the weight on her back slowly let up. And even when it did, Lydia didn't move, the wind crushed out of her as she rolled over to get a look at whatever the hell had hit her.

Beetlejuice, bruised, battered, striped suit streaked with black gunk, somewhere between tar and molasses and holy shit, was he crying?

“Beej—” she started. “Beej, what—

She found she couldn't finish her sentence.

Beetlejuice hardly seemed to notice her presence.

He stood, wobbling slightly as if in pain. Pulling a stick of chalk out of midair, he drew a messy door-shape.

Beetlejuice knocked, once, twice, thrice, nothing. He knocked again, and again, and again.

Nothing happened.

He hammered his fist against the wall hard enough that Lydia heard a crack. Plaster dusting the carpet as he pulled his hand away, bruised knuckles, a look of desperation on his face.

“Beej,” she stood, grabbing his shoulder.

Beetlejuice looked at her, eyes wide, his features screwed in frustration. In all honesty, he looked close to tears.

“I'm gonna level with you, Lyds,” his voice was worse than ever and Lydia winced at the stark familiarity. “I got a problem.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said, throat clogged with unshed tears. “Yeah, you and me both.”

⁂

His nose was broken.

Lydia didn't know what to say, neither, it seemed, did Beetlejuice.

His face wouldn't stop bleeding. Except it wasn't blood, never blood. It was thick black goop that smelled like mold and rotting meat and well—

His hair had gone blue-black, contrasting sharply against his pale skin, but they didn't talk about that either.

Instead, Lydia told Beetlejuice to sit, told him to wait, foreign concepts but he complied all the same. Unmoving as she ducked into her bathroom to find what she was looking for.

The first aid kit. The one her father had made her keep there after Beetlejuice had shown up the first time. Telling her they could never be too careful and a thousand other things, all of which she’d ignored.

Maybe her dad had a point.

She grabbed thread next, the set of sewing needles from her desk drawer. Did demons even need stitches? Lydia didn't care. It was easier, in a way, to distract herself by helping him, rather than figuring out how she could help herself.

Or, that was what her therapist would say.

Beetlejuice sat on the bed and she fixed his face. He didn't talk, and she wondered if he was concussed, if such a thing was even possible and why couldn't it be? When something was so, so wrong.

“Ow,” he said when she jabbed the needle into his dead flesh. “Fuck a duck! you, you _stabbed_ me with that tiny metal torture device.”

“Don't move then,” was all she said in response.

“These are pretty deep.” She considered the gashes. Bloodied and jagged, the cuts trailed the side of his cheek, disappeared into his hairline. Lydia didn't want to think about how they’d come to be.

Carefully, she pulled something sharp and sparkling from the cut.

“Is this glass?”

Beetlejuice nodded.

“Got me pretty good, that’s for sure,” he said. “My fault. I screwed the pooch like it was going out of style.”

Lydia couldn't help herself.

“What happened to you?” she asked, immediately regretting it when his face fell faster than she’d ever seen.

“Funny story actually,” Beetlejuice said. He sounded the way he always did, sardonically amused, but his eyes betrayed him, pupils dilated like a spooked animal.

“Turns out my mom hates me,” he continued. “Fucking bummer. Sure, I slacked a little when it came to mother’s day, but c’mon, it wasn't like I coulda dropped by with a card, what with her banishing me for eternity and all.”

His mom was—

His mom was dead. Lydia knew that. Hell, she’d seen it happen. Watching an angry old lady getting eaten by a giant worm as not something one soon forgets. Especially the leg.

Especially especially the terror on his face. Wide amber eyes. The way he’d tried to make himself smaller, arms tight to his body, mouth shut like he was trying to pretend he didn't have fangs, blood on his face and—

Lydia had felt only relief when she was gone.

“What's with the face?” Beetlejuice said, eyebrows raised.

“Your mom,” she said. “She _is_ dead, isn't she?”

“Oh yeah.” Beetlejuice said. “Murder-y as always, total stick in my ass.”

“No, not—” Lydia sighed in frustration. “I thought—I, I saw her die—for real. And you had her leg and stuff. That worm thing ate her?” Lydia said, at a loss.

Beetlejuice made a sound halfway between a sob and a snort.

“A sandworm? Nah, no way in hell could that thing kill her. Just made her scary mad.”

“Okay but—”

“Trust me, kid, no buts about it. Even if I do rock a thong.”

Lydia ignored the last bit. Actually, she ignored most of it. She didn't want to think about the implications of what he’d said. The way he stank like alcohol but didn't appear the slightest bit drunk. The glass embedded in his skin like—

His mom—Juno, she remembered, had hurt him. Badly.

Lydia felt stupid, oh-so-stupid for ever thinking Juno was gone in the first place. Hell, she’d seen Beetlejuice impaled, she’d seen him rip off his own limbs. Of-fucking-course some mutant-worm thing wouldn't be able to kill a demon.

“I’m an idiot,” Lydia said. “I guess I assumed she was gone. But why would she—I mean, you’re...you’re you. Why wouldn't you stop her? It looks pretty bad, Beej, I don't get why...”

Lydia trailed off.

“Don't push it, kid,” Beetlejuice glowered. He scrubbed at his face, tears leaking down his cheeks. “‘Sides, she’s a whole lot stronger than me, not much I could do to stop her even if I wanted to.”

“Wanted to? You mean you didn't—”

“She’s my mom,” Beetlejuice said, like it was somehow an explanation. “And she’s a demon, it’s a whole other ballpark.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not like you," he said, matter-of-fact. "I might walk the walk, talk the talk so to speak but s’only ‘cause I spend most of my time topside. Most demons are like Juno, all into brutal murder and death metal and shit.”

Lydia blinked, surprised.

“So you’re saying your—”

“Astoundingly vanilla for a demon, yes, it’s as embarrassing as it sounds. Now can we please talk about literally anything else.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, unable to help herself. “Here’s a question; what’d you do to make her so mad in the first place? I mean, aside from getting her swallowed by a giant worm.”

“Sandworm,” Beetlejuice said. “And all you need to know is she’s the worst. Like, okay, so there was this time when I was like, eight, and she had some dinner party thing she had to go to. She must’ve lost track of time ‘cause she was gone for three days and when she came back, she didn't even apologize or anything, she was just like, ‘go the fuck to bed, also you smell and I hate you.' And then she locked me in my room and had sex with the neighbor while I _LISTENED_. When I tell you I had the opposite of a sexual awakening that night—”

“Beej,” she cut him off, equal parts disturbed and disgusted by his story. “Can we maybe skip to the part where this becomes relevant vis-a-vis you falling through my ceiling?”

“Fine,” he trailed off, glaring at the wall. “But I want a pizza—not any of that little Caesar's shit—I'm talking dominos, meat-lovers, stuffed crust. A jar of marshmallow fluff, and a noose to hang myself with if this convo gets emotionally graphic.”

“No just, shut up and tell me what the hell’s wrong with you.”

“Should I be shutting up now, or after you get me a pizza?”

“I'm not getting you a pizza.”

Beetlejuice wilted. “Is it ‘cause I'm chubby? That’s low, Lyds, even for you.”

Lydia was starting to remember why she’d stabbed him in the first place.

And while he was nattering about the pizza or lack thereof, Lydia took the opportunity to finish stitching the side of his face.

She’d chosen green for the thread, in a gesture Lydia assumed he’d appreciate. Working quickly, she cut it from the spool, doing her best to tie it off.

She only had a second to admire her handiwork before Beetlejuice dropped a bomb.

“My mom kicked me out,” he said, fiddling with his tie. “She was all like,’ Lawrence, if you don't murder your bestest friend in the whole entire world, Lydia Deetz, than I will have no choice but to banish you from the netherworld for crimes of being super amazingly cool and handsome.’”

He fluffed a hand through his bloodied hair, pulling out a cobweb as he went.

“Can I have my pizza now?”

Lydia stared at him.

“What?” She finally said, searching his face for any sign that he was joking.

“She told me I had to leave you guys alone. ‘Cause in her books, I'm supposed to be above sappy breather emotions. I guess she didn't think you'd try to summon me back in the first place, and since it’s not like I can, you know, ignore those or anything…”

He trailed off.

“And she wants you to kill me because?”

“You summoned me, didn't you? Boy was she steamed. Must've realized I wasn't clowning with her bullshit so she decided, hey! What's better than murder? Nothing.”

A pointing stick appeared in Beetlejuice's hand. With it, he drew a stick girl, above her, in the messiest handwriting she had ever seen, he wrote “Ghost Lydia.”

“See, if you’re dead, that’s her domain. Mommy bitch queen can do whatever the fuck she wants with you, and that includes throwing your soul into the never-ending pit of despair which, yeah, not as fun as it sounds.”

He drew an “X” over ghost Lydia. Himself—a stick figure with green hair, a frown on his face—followed by an arrow and the words _‘Beetlejuice crying because Mom threw BFFFF Lydia into the sadness pit.'_

The pointer stick disappeared with a puff.

“So when you really think about it, this is all your fault,” Beetlejuice said cheerily, like he was discussing the weather instead of his abusive mother. “There _is_ something I’ve been meaning to try.”

He stood, rocked back on his heels and sank to the floor

“Nope. Nevermind. Goddamn low blood pressure.”

“I think you’re concussed,” Lydia said. Her eyes landed on his tangled mat of hair, now crusted with blood and muck, filth that looked like it belonged in a swamp.

“Honey, I had more pep in my step the time some _asshole_ decided to cleave my skull clean in two. Peeled me open like a McFucking tangerine. Still better than this.”

“Gross.”

It was best not to indulge him.

“Oh my god my parents are going to kill me,” Lydia said. “There’s a demon trapped in our house _again_ and it’s somehow my fault. I won't see the light of day until I'm at least twenty-one.”

“Cool your pits, Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way,” Beetlejuice muttered. “It ain't something to write home about.”

“What?”

“I'm on my way out. Maybe I’ll even befriend some other, far less sexy, ghosties, doubt it, though. I’ve been told I'm insufferable. Newly deads hate me more than death itself. Though ‘demon’ does imply the physical manifestation of death so it’s a bit of a paradox.”

Lydia was doomed.

Once again, Beetlejuice got to his feet. Fairing slightly better than the first time, he managed to make it to the adjacent wall. He reached deep, impossibly deep, into his pocket and pulled out a book.

It was old, yellowed with age, dog eared more times than Lydia could count. The title etched in sprawling cursive, letters replaced with unfamiliar symbols. It stank of insidious intent, a wrongness that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Almost lazily, Beetlejuice paged through it.

“No, no, no—do I look like a necromancer?—Jesus fuck. Tried that one, did _not_ go well, no, no, blood magic, ugh, a little old fashioned for my tastes but—” he froze, eyes lighting. “This one should do the trick.

“Alright kid, I’m gonna need your help here. Says that if you say my three more times, and _bam_." he clapped his hands for added effect. “No more demon.”

Lydia didn't answer. Obviously, keeping a demon in the house was a terrible idea, but sending him away? Back to the netherworld? Back to hell, more like. It felt cruel and unnecessary.

“C’mon, you gonna help me, or what?" Beetlejuice said, cocking his head like a confused, terrifying puppy-dog. "I can't stay here. Shit to do, people to bone and all that. You’d be doing me a favor.”

He shut the book with a snap, and Lydia watched it vanish in a haze of foul-smelling smoke.

It was true that he couldn't stay here. Her parents would kill her. No, her parents would kill him and they’d go back to walking on eggshells around her for who knew how long.

Lydia reclined on her bed, trying to force a certain train of thought from her mind.

It went something like: _thisisyourfaultyourfaultallyourfault shit shit shit FUCK._

“Okay,” she said. “And you’re sure this isn't going backfire and end with you, I dunno, leveling up and going on a state-wide murder spree.”

“Aww, Lydia, snookums, the sweetest of summer children, you know me better than that. I wasn't even thinking it ‘till you said it, and now, thanks to you, I got all these ideas floating around in the trash compactor I call a brain,” he said, eyes flaring like manic coals. “Do it quick, three B’s and you’ll be golden, hell, it’ll only take a sec.”

“And there’s not—no clauses, right?”

The last thing she wanted to do was, well, whatever the hell he’d get up to if anything went wrong.

“A softcore exorcism is all,” he said. a look she hadn't seen before coming into his eyes. “Considering I died here and all, it should work just fine. No funny business, pinkie promise. Simple at that. Pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, straight trip to the netherworld.”

He gave her a sharp grin, all wide eyes and yellow fangs and holy shit he was insane, wasn't he?

But Lydia already knew that much.

“Alright,” she nodded.

“Get on with it then, I haven't got all day,” Beetlejuice tapped his bare wrist.

“I'm just—fuck, fuck, you’re annoying,” she said. “You're sure, then, Beetlejuice?"

"Sure I'm sure."

She took a deep breath. 

"Beetlejuice."

"Beetlejuice.”

Lydia shut her eyes after she said it, waiting for, well, she didn't quite know what. And after what felt like an eternity of silence, an eternity of nothing, she unclenched her shoulders, opened her eyes.

Her room was empty.

Or, it was empty, until one very crispy looking demon shot backward, seemingly out of nowhere, hitting the wall with an audible crack. And Lydia had no idea if the crack had come from the wall or Beetlejuice himself. That was, until he got to his feet, wincing and popping his neck back into place with a pained grunt.

He was properly angry now, his hair turning a muddy red. 

“Fuck,” Beetlejuice said. “Fucking cocksucker motherfucker sonofabitch that—owww, owwie, my fucking—what the hell was that?”

“Beej,” Lydia said, angry and terrified and so, so tired. “Beej, what—”

“I'm doomed,” Beetlejuice mumbled, sinking to the floor in a fit of somewhat amusing hysterics. “Doomed. It’s official, the universe hates me. Well fuck you, universe! I didn't need you anyway. I was doing fine all on my own before—ah shit, my ribcage is...broken.”

He was sweating, Lydia realized. The tips of his hair singed as his fingers spat sparks, hair a confusing shade of purply red. With his face hidden, his hair was the only indicator of his admittedly hard-to-read emotions.

“New plan,” Beetlejuice muttered into the carpet. “I off myself. Should send me right back to mommy. Sure, it'll mean a guaranteed exorcism—historically not great—but I'm somewhat low on options.”

Wincing, he shifted sideways to peer at her with glowing amber eyes. Lydia glared back.

“That’s a really bad idea,” Lydia said, finally. “Almost as bad as well, pretty much every other idea you’ve had, dimwit.”

She didn't think she could stand to see him go. Again. Even if she knew, logically, that he was already dead. More than that, he was a demon and therefore couldn't die. Still, the memories of, of the wedding, red suit, red blood, someone, Delia maybe, screaming and—

“There has to be some other way,” she continued. “One that involves less...you dying.”

“You got any better ideas?” Beetlejuice said, kicking out his legs and flopping onto his back.

And Beetlejuice might not have wanted to come out and say it, but Lydia knew the truth. It was her fault that he was even here in the first place, making him, at least for the time being, her responsibility. Like it or not, it was up to her to help him get back to the netherworld.

Unless.

Unless, alright, so Beetlejuice couldn't draw the door, seemingly because whoever operated the overcomplicated door system in the Netherworld was aware that Beetlejuice was persona non grata and was doing all they could to keep the slimy motherfucker out.

But what if someone else drew said door?

“Okay,” Lydia said. “Okay, what if I help you?”

“Help me with what? Beetlejuice rolled his eyes, dropping back to the floor with an annoyed huff. “I thought we’d already established that you don't want me knifing myself in the throat.”

“We make a portal, dickweed,” Lydia said. “Or did you forget about the two ghosts living in my attic?”

“Nope. Bad idea. Sexy and sexier seem more like the ‘stab ‘em and slab ‘em’ type, and as much as I fancy being turned into a beetle-kebob—”

“I hate to agree with you, but you’ve got a point.”

Lydia frowned. There had to be other ghosts in town, or newly deads, at least, and if they only had to wait for someone to die—

“Yeah, so your idea was stupid, no need to go all Sally sad sack on me,” Beetlejuice said.

“I'm not—” Lydia cut off. “I know what we need to do.”

She just hoped she wouldn't come to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be a stereotypical fanfic author or anything, but uhh, I had the absolute Worst Time with this chapter. I've rewritten it more times than I can count, does not help that i have writers block.
> 
> eh, what can you do? Sometimes you gotta cry and then post it anyways. Side note, this chapter makes me sad, cuz, holy shit Lydia and Beej are really going through it, huh. Also, uh, I'd like to formally announce that i have no idea what im doing somebody save me.
> 
> also also, yall seemed concerned about my sleep schedule and im here to say that yeah, you should be. 
> 
> biweekly reminder to come bother me on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) tyty for reading and commenting, that shit makes my day!!


	6. Chapter 6

Lydia, the stupid genius she was, had a plan. 

Said plan wasn't great or even good, by any stretch of the imagination, but Beetlejuice figured something was almost always better than nothing, so he’d agreed to hear her out in return for a free nail painting.

Eleven hours later saw Beetlejuice with a fresh coat of black nail polish and a death wish.

After agreeing that the Maitlands could, should, and would stay out of the equation altogether, Lydia had come to the conclusion that they needed another newly dead to do their dirty work.

It made sense too. Find some poor sap who’d just died, give them the rundown and boom, one portal to the netherworld coming straight up.

So maybe Lydia’s plan _sounded_ sort of alright, but _sounded_ didn't win Oscars. It certainly wouldn't help them if their dead guy turned out to be a total bitch baby dickhole idiot.

Still, he was getting ahead of himself. And like all good, or, at least, semi-okay stories, it was best to start at the beginning.

If only the beginning didn't happen to be so gosh darn god awful boring.

But fine, alright, whatever, he'd play ball.

Two hours earlier and Lydia was sat at her desk, glaring at her math homework as if it had spat in her face, killed her entire family—extended included—and also her dog and newborn child. Beetlejuice, who knew better than to interrupt after having been told off countless times, hovered above her bed, halfheartedly strumming at his out of tune ukulele.

“Would you cut that out, Lydia.” Charles’s voice was heard from somewhere below them.

Lydia spun around to glare at him. Beetlejuice shrugged, chucking the instrument over his shoulder and into the pocket dimension. His absolute mess of a pocket dimension. Truly a testament to his organizational skills.

“Ugh, fine, it was boring anyway. You ready to get this show on the road?” Beetlejuice said, grinning through a mouthful of fangs, too many fangs. They tended to come out when he felt any sort of extreme emotion. Great when dealing with angry newly deads and sandworms alike. Though mostly, the extra teeth in his mouth made him drool and gave him a slight lisp. Not helpful when it came to his intimidation factor.

“You know we have to wait until they’re in bed. Or else they’re going to get suspicious when they come to say goodnight. It’s like you want my dad to call the police,” Lydia replied, voice full of maximum teenage snark.

Beetlejuice sighed. Stupid breather movies setting his standards stupidly high when it came to doing cool things like sneaking out of houses in the middle of the night. Also, they totally had it wrong when it came to like, ninety percent of horror movies. Beetlejuice knew how to scare, those movies did not. All jumpscares did was give old ladies heart attacks. No one shat their pants over a jumpscare, you had to build up to it, everyone knew that.

He flopped back onto the bed, spread eagle, before shucking off his jacket and burrito-ing himself in her blankets.

“I could put ‘em to sleep with a snap of my fingers if you want,” Beetlejuice said. “This is taking longer than an old man in the bedroom. Sans Viagra.”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

“And have them wake up with no memory of how they fell asleep in the first place? They’d know something was wrong.”

“No offense but I literally couldn't care less. This whole place reeks of breather and it’s making me starving.”

Lydia opened her mouth before shutting it again, turning back to her homework.

“Not gonna ask ‘cause I don't want to know,” she muttered to herself.

“Good instinct,” he replied.

However, time passed quickly enough once the sun set. Between their banter and him eating what must have been the majority of Lydia’s stash of snacks. Eventually, Beetlejuice drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He was midway through a dream involving his mother, a false set of teeth, and drowning, when Lydia shook him awake. Following it up with a kick that sent him over the side of the bed.

“The hell was that for?” Beetlejuice hissed, getting to his feet.

The room was dark. Lydia stood in front of him dressed in a simple sweatshirt and grey jeans. Her hair puffed out from underneath a knit beanie, a flashlight dangled from her belt.

She gave him an unimpressed look.

“You need to change.”

Beetlejuice blinked.

“What, why?”

“We’re breaking into a dead guy’s house and you’re asking me why you shouldn't wear what is possibly the most eye-catchingly ugly suit I've ever seen in my life?”

“Alright, alright, love the energy. What if I—”

Beetlejuice shifted into a cat. He leapt up onto her shoulders, bringing his face to her ear.

“Is this better?” he whisper-yelled, and she flinched.

Beetlejuice almost fell to the ground laughing. Instead, she grabbed him around the middle and held him up in the air. He wiggled, tail twitching as he tried to squirm free.

“Whatever weirdo,” Lydia said, dropping him to the floor. “Long as we don't get caught.”

It was easy enough for them to crawl out the window. Beetlejuice teleported them both to the ground, ignoring the way his vision went fuzzy from the effort. His awesomely cool demonic powers had been acting funky all day. Probably something to do with the aftereffects of whateverthefuck Juno had done to him.

Beetlejuice chose to ignore it. He shook out his pelt—god, it was weird being a cat—and followed Lydia down the driveway.

Once they were halfway down the street, Lydia turned to him.

“What now?”

It was a quiet night, and her street was empty save for the occasional rustling of a rabbit or a bat.

Beetlejuice fought the urge to go after them. Instead, he focused his attention on the flickering street lamp down the road.

“We find ourselves a dead guy,” Beetlejuice said.

“Yeah, but how? You got some kind of radar for this shit?”

Beetlejuice shut his eyes and sat back on his haunches. Death felt like a prickling down his spine. It made his gums ache and his head buzz pleasantly but all that was usually in short range. If he intended on sniffing out a dead person, he would have to put in a bit more work.

“It’s like a sneeze,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll know when it happens.”

“And we’re supposed to wait around until it does?” Lydia asked. “How long does this stuff usually take?”

“It will go a lot faster if you let me focus,” he said.

She huffed, sitting down on the curb to wait.

Beetlejuice joined her. Hopping up into her lap and letting her scratch behind his ears as he sent out his senses. Watching, waiting for something, _someone_ to drop through the veil of the living.

It happened slowly and then all at once. A man, older maybe, but it was hard to tell, had died alone in his home only one town over.

Beetlejuice figured this would be the best they were going to get. Even if the man’s spirit seemed more than a little crotchety. Like the color blue and the smell after rain. Normally, Beetlejuice loved the smell after it rained but not so much with this guy. He shrugged it off. It was a small price to pay for his Maitland-less return to the netherworld.

“I’ve got our guy,” Beetlejuice said, and Lydia nodded.

“Anything goes wrong and we come back here ASAP, if it’s a success, you send me home before going through the portal, yeah?” Lydia said, and Beetlejuice nodded.

“Don't sweat it, kid. I’ll have you back in no time.”

“Remind me why I needed to come in the first place?”

Beetlejuice shrugged. “I usually spook the newly deads. Learned that the hard way with the Maitlands, or as I like to call ‘em—”

Lydia held up a hand, “I see your point.”

Beetlejuice gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. Except, you know, he was a cat so, in actuality, it was unnerving as hell.

“Good news is our man is close...ish. Which brings me to the bad news, I lied, and the even worse news, long-distance teleportation can be kind of iffy. Like, small chance you’ll lose your soul to the void kind of iffy. But hey, what can you do?” Beetlejuice said, placing a paw on her hand.

“Hang onto me and you’ll be just fine. Probably.” He continued, aiming for nonchalance but instead landing somewhere south of straight-up making-things-worse.

Honestly, Beetlejuice wasn't so sure. His powers were, to put it delicately, more than a little unstable, even on a good day. And since they were entirely dependent on his emotions, a bad day could really put him off his game.

And sure, one-demon teleportation was nothing when it came to the cool, powerful shit he could do, teleporting a breather was more than a little tricky. The whole, living breathing soul thing did not well with the demonic bending of space-time.

But whatever, no biggie, it was all going to be fine.

Was what he told himself.

Ignoring Lydia’s shout of protest, Beetlejuice put the majority of his energy on protecting her. Envisioning a force shield from one of those lame action superhero movies. In truth, he’d never done anything of this sort before and wouldn't be able to live, or, not live, but you get the point, with himself if her mortal soul wound up trapped in another plane of existence.

Thankfully, they landed without issue in the middle of an empty room. Empty save for the body of a man who looked to be in his mid to late fifties. With black hair and wide, unseeing green eyes.

The body was sat in a worn, green armchair, TV remote still in hand. The TV played nothing but static, lighting the sparse room, bursts of white, followed by flickering shadows.

Beetlejuice lept from Lydia’s arms. Lydia, who’d gone stiff with shock at the sight of the body.

Oh right, breathers were—when it came to death, breathers got all weird. Like death wasn't some natural, slightly disgusting part of life. Instead, it seemed to be the cause of some overblown existential crisis. And hey, Beetlejuice had only been human for thirty to forty seconds give or take, but it had been long enough for him to come to the conclusion that he never wanted to feel that way ever again.

“Lyds?” Beetlejuice said. Head buzzing with newfound energy. The newly dead was close, right below them, he was sure of it.

Actually, he could feel it, like he’d chugged ten red bulls or had really awesome sex or—

Beetlejuice was unable to stop himself from stepping closer to the body. God, he felt better already, as if all the shitty breather emotions had been washed away, leaving behind clean, raw power. And he wasn't going to lie, okay? It felt good.

Beetlejuice, swaying on his feet—paws, whatever, startled when Lydia called his name.

“Huh?” He said, ears flicking back as he dug his claws into the hardwood floor.

“Can we find your guy and get out of here? This place is giving me the creeps,” she said. Beetlejuice noticed she looked paler than usual, hands clenched at her sides.

He opened his mouth to respond.

“Would you stop being gross for one second?” Lydia said. “Getting a hard-on for a dead guy isn't exactly a great look.”

Seeming to have regained her composure, Lydia gestured to the man, a mix of horror and amusement on her face.

“As if I’d cheat on Adam,” Beetlejuice said, sticking his tongue out. “True love right there, baby. I wouldn't do a thing to fuck it up.”

“You are seriously weird,” Lydia said. “And gross. Did I mention gross?”

“Once or twice,” he replied.

It was more complicated than that, of course. Except it mostly wasn't, normally though, death didn't have a super-strong effect on him, but his encounter with Juno had sapped at his reserves. Kind of like a near-starving shark at the scent of new blood.

“Whatever,” Lydia said. “Are we going to find our newly dead or what?”

“Yep,” Beetlejuice said, popping the “p.”

He crossed the room, Lydia following him. Through a doorway leading to the kitchen and another into what looked to be the hallway leading to the garage. Beetlejuice stopped when he came to a door.

“Right this way, step right up,” he said, mimicking an old-time-y radio host. “And remember, death is not known to put one in the best of spirits so don't blame me if he’s a huge grump. Spirits. Ha, see what I did there?”

Lydia shook her head.

“I hate you.”

“Touching,” Beetlejuice said, as she opened the door to reveal a dimly lit staircase.

The basement was unfinished, with concrete flooring and boxes stacked in each of the corners. Old furniture sat mildew-ing in the center of the mess.

The newly dead stood against the far wall. He startled when he saw them, angry or constipated, Beetlejuice couldn't tell.

Considering that Lydia was small and tiny and young and appallingly alive, she was nowhere near the ideal candidate when it came to facing off against an angry dead guy. Which was why Beetlejuice decided to take charge.

Moving down the stairs, he shifted back into his usual form, stepping forward and sticking his hand out for the guy to shake.

“BJ is the name, haunting is the game, and might I say it is so nice to meet you, mister—”

‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” The guy said, face going red with anger.

“Right,” Beetlejuice said. “Okay, so here’s the deal: you're dead. Cardiac thingie, don't worry ‘bout it, happens all the time. Long story short, your heart went all funky, probably ‘cause you ate like shit. Whatever, anyways, see, thing is—”

“My best friend is a demon and we need you to help us send him back to hell,” Lydia said from somewhere behind him.

“That’s about the size of it,” Beetlejuice said and gave the man a winning smile.

Like he wasn't willing to do literally anything to get the guy to help them out. And yes, he would go so far as to get down on his knees and start sucking the guy’s dick then and there if it ensured his return to the netherworld. And more importantly, his departure from Lydia’s life which Beetlejuice wasn't entirely sure he hadn't already ruined.

“I—what?” The man said, glancing from Beetlejuice to Lydia back to Beetlejuice. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Beetlejuice shrugged.

“Does this seem like a joke to you?” Lydia said, elbowing Beetlejuice. “Show him the handbook.”

Beetlejuice snapped his fingers, pulling the handbook out from the pocket dimension and into his grasp.

He decided to forgo the tote bag altogether as it rarely (if ever) went over well, and who could blame ‘em? The handbook was bad enough on its own; like, 'hooray, you’re dead, now read this shitty book cover to cover'. In Beetlejuice’s experience, the last thing any newly dead wanted was homework.

And plus, it wasn't like he’d ever read the handbook, and he got along fine, ergo, the stupid thing was hardly a necessity.

“Listen—” the man started. 

And Beetlejuice decided he was going to call him John because of John Doe. That, and he looked more like a John than a Paul, George, or Ringo, which was unfunny and dumb but hell, the guy needed a fucking name.

“I don't know what you think you’re playing at, _sir_ ,” John said. Shoving the book against Beetlejuice’s chest so Beetlejuice was forced to take it from him. “But you and your—”

He eyed Lydia.

“—your sister need to get out of my house, or I'm calling the police.”

Beetlejuice turned to Lydia, jerking a thumb in John’s direction.

“See, this guy’s a guaranteed pain in the ass. The worst kind of ghost is the one who doesn't know he’s dead. Makes no fun for scaring. Huge bummer, really.”

He paused, feeling his face stretch into a wide grin.

“Only one way to snap em out of it,” he said, to no one in particular. “Demonic possession!”

And, hear him out, alright? Beetlejuice lived, ha, okay, not lived, but as a demon, scaring was practically his main purpose in life. With possession and blood contracts as his side gig. Kind of. Essentially, possession was old hat to him. Which was why it was easy enough to make John grab the chalk.

Beetlejuice watched as John’s defiant glare melted away into shocked terror as his hand seemed to move of its own accord. Slowly, the man reached forward to take the chalk from Beetlejuice’s hand.

And call him sadistic, but this was always his favorite part. The fear, the wide-eyed horror as the breather (or newly dead) got all worked up ‘cause having a demon in your brain tended to elicit that sort of reaction. In short, Beetlejuice loved it, even if it was kind of a cheap shot.

Which was why, when he shot a glance at Lydia, a grin stretched wide across his face, he expected her to, to feel it too. The ‘you're mine now and there’s nothing you can do to stop me’, instead, he got—

Lydia looked scared. Disturbed, disgusted. A thousand other words.

Her expression was enough to freeze him where he stood. Was she disgusted with him? Yeah, okay, possession was bad, real bad. Not great from an ethical, or fine, any perspective unless you were a total and utter creep. But Beetlejuice was a demon, unbeholden to any of that shit.

Besides, it wasn't like they knew John, like John, y’know, like he _mattered_. Which sounded worse the more Beetlejuice thought about it.

So Beetlejuice resolved not to think about it. He shoved his intention at the man. It was almost like being in two places at once.

On one hand, he was the pasty green-haired demon standing in some random man’s basement with his BFFF forever, and, on the other, he was John the newly dead.

His head was full of that misty, disconnected feeling that possession seemed to come with. As though he was being torn in two.

With a hand that was not his own, Beetlejuice drew the door.

He was about to knock when he felt a hand on the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Don't,” Lydia said. “This is wrong, Beej. All of this.”

Beetlejuice blanched.

“I don't follow,” he said. But he felt—he felt angry, but also weird, like somebody had plopped his intestines in a spaghetti strainer full of acid.

“We can’t do this,” Lydia said, sounding more sure of herself. “The guy just _died_ and you’re, you’re—”

“I'm what?” Beetlejuice said.

“I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. We have to leave. The Maitlands can draw you a door in the morning, let’s go, Beetlejuice.”

His name burned all the way up his throat when she said it, but the anger stung worse. Lydia was mad. Mad at him for, for—this had been her idea, hadn't it? So why was she—

“‘Cmon, Lyds,” Beetlejuice said, fighting to keep his tone even. He didn't even want to think about what color his hair must've been. “Just ‘cause you’ve got cold feet…”

“I don't have ‘cold feet’,” Lydia said. She shook her head, indignant. “This is, it’s dumb, dumb, and convoluted. Even for us. Can we go already?”

Beej sighed.

“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Beetlejuice replied. He dropped his hold on John and watched with blatant disinterest as the guy staggered backward, landing on his scrawny ass. “You won this round, let me—”

That was when the power went out. Lights flickering, the air humming and buzzing and—

“Beej?” Lydia cried. “Beej the fuck are you doing?”

“As if I would go for a power outage scare. Who do you think I am, Casper the friendly ghost? Lights off is amateur hour, kiddo. You and I both know I like a challenge.”

“So it’s him then, right? You’re saying a newly dead could pull this shit off? I’ve read the handbook, and it clearly states that electrical manipulation takes _at least_ a class five ghost.”

“Tell that to John,” Beetlejuice muttered, hovering a foot off the ground, arms over his chest.

Unlike Lydia, he could see perfectly in the dark. Could see John, who’d lost his shape entirely. Little more than a mass of writhing shadows in the darkness. Reforming and reshaping as he grew long, spidery limbs. His face-melting off his skull, skin tightening against bone.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Beetlejuice said, having realized the gravity of the situation a split second too late.

Just then, a _second_ , smaller ghost phased down through the ceiling. He held the shape of John, the shape the writing, snarling figure had abandoned in favor of a bigger, badder look. The newly dead seemed confused, terrified even. Only, unlike his double, his throat was covered in handprint-shaped bruises. A thin stream of blood running down his chin as his eyes practically bulged out of his skull.

“Beetlejuice,” Lydia said. The air began to shift, the scent of rot and decay filling the air as the _thing_ , whatever it was, approached.

“Beetlejuice,” Lydia said a second time, and Beetlejuice realized what she was doing. If she summoned him, he’d actually have a fighting chance against not-John.

“Beetlejuice,” she said a third and final time, and Beetlejuice felt himself manifest fully in a flash of green light. “What is that thing?”

“Here’s what I'm thinking,” Beetlejuice started. “Guy kills himself twenty years ago. My money’s on overdose or suicide. The land is sold, bought by some fancy douchebag who decides ‘hey, might as well fix this shithole up.’ New furniture, new everything. Moves his family in, and it’s fine at first. So maybe the hallways are a little drafty at night, and maybe their kid says something about seeing who knows what, but no one, and I mean no one, listens to kids when they say shit like that; they should, but they don't. More time passes and then—”

“Beej,” Lydia screamed. “How about more running and less monologuing, okay?”

The wind was really going now. Not-John was screaming. Loud, loud enough that Beetlejuice half-expected to feel warm ectoplasm draining from his ears a la egg yolk. Which, disgusting, just, the grossest imagery; he’d have to save it for later. But Lydia was right, as much as Beetlejuice hated to admit it.

Before he could follow Lydia up the basement steps, the thing—Not-John—seized him from behind. Beetlejuice let out a low growl, feeling claws sink deep into his shoulders, reminiscent of where Juno had grabbed him the night before.

It didn't hurt, well, it did. As much as he tried to hide it, Beetlejuice could feel pain the same as anyone else. He sure as hell felt the thing’s claws grasping at his throat, knocking him to the ground.

Sparks buzzed from Beetlejuice's fingers as he teleported to the left. Avoiding the snap of jaws where his face had been seconds before.

His head spun with self-hatred as he tried to figure out how the ghost—Not-John—had done it. Surely, the thing had killed the real John, stuffed him in the closet and took his place, waiting for, for what?

Breathers to show up. Maybe it would be the family, the mailman, the kid he pays to water his flowers, who the hell knew? But eventually, someone would show up and—

Beetlejuice let out a gasping wheeze as the thing, larger now, threw him into the wall. Little more than a black mass of wind and rage, a crude face, twin, slitted eyes. Not-John was powerful, Beetlejuice knew that much, knew he’d have to play smart if he wanted to beat it.

He waited for Not-John to draw closer. A third hand fumbling in his pocket in an attempt to find—ah, there it was.

Not-John lunged, crackling like static, mouth open to reveal a set of sharp yellow teeth. Beetlejuice almost laughed. Sure, the thing was strong, but he was a fucking born-dead demonic abomination of a person. If Not-John thought it could win this fight, it was sorely mistaken.

With that, Beetlejuice drove the crowbar he'd pulled from his pocket straight through Not-John’s ribcage. Relishing the sharp, satisfying crack of bone, followed by a gooey puncturing noise as organs popped like balloons, draining ectoplasm onto the concrete flooring.

It was hard to hurt something already dead, but Beetlejuice had been around the block enough times to know that silver worked wonders when it came to slicing, dicing, and occasionally decapitating anything from newly deads to demons. And he’d had enough run-ins with the stuff to know it was legit. Of course, if a ghost was able to generate enough energy, they would heal easily enough, but that amount of energy was hard to come by on short notice, it would take a—

_Oh no._

A dead body, especially a recently deceased, would most certainly do the trick.

_Shit._

That was when Not-John tore the crowbar from its chest. Eyeing the gore with some stupid, smiley emotion that was unwarranted and out of place and, in that moment, Beetlejuice pretty much wanted to sink through the floor and die.

And he would’ve, if not for the fact that he had to protect Lydia. The longer he held off Not-John, the more likely it was that she would be able to escape.

It wasn't like the thing could kill him. Most it could do was ruin his suit, which, yeah, it would suck, but it wouldn't be the worst thing that had happened to him in his many millennia as a guide, not even fucking close.

The crowbar sank through Beetlejuice’s leg like butter, tearing at muscle like a fucking—just, eww.

He hardly had time to gasp in pain before the crowbar was pulled free with a sickening pop. As Not-John drove it down into his other leg.

Beetlejuice tried to stand, tried to run, but if his powers had been wonky before, they were now nonexistent. Instead, he slipped in his own ectoplasm, legs turning to jello as he slid back to the floor. His hands raised in front of his face as the world went white around him.

Real backward way to end up in the netherworld, he thought, and he had to laugh, he had to fucking laugh because this was as stupid as it was ridiculous. What were the odds that they would manage to anger a poltergeist—or, that’s what he was assuming it was—on the very same day that his powers had gone kaput thanks to his no-good fucking mom? Astronomical was what they were.

But then again, Beetlejuice always had the shittiest luck.

And he knew it was only going to get shittier. Especially when Not-John seemed intent on sending the crowbar on a round trip straight through Beetlejuice’s eye socket. Real fucking pain in the ass is what that would be. Even if it wouldn't kill him, it wasn't like it was _fun_ having your brains poked at by an overeager poltergeist.

In those last few seconds, his stupid shitty soon-to-be-pulverized brain flashed to Juno because of course, it did. Kid-BJ, clamping his teeth down on his knuckles to stop himself from crying for fear that she would hear him. Sometimes, a sob would escape and he’d hear her footsteps grow steadily louder, his bedroom door swinging open. After that, there'd be yelling and pain and Beetlejuice realizing that god or satan or whoever the fuck ran the netherworld couldn't give two shits about him.

And then the thing was upon him, and then, suddenly—and shockingly—it wasn't.

“Get off him, you asshole!” Lydia said from somewhere behind the giant, demonic thing.

Her shout was followed by the sound of something heavy being thrown, a camera, Lydia’s camera. It hit Not-John in the side of the head. Surprisingly, or, unsurprisingly as she was a breather and Beetlejuice was only a demon; breathers made for a far better meal, was what he’d heard, Not-John’s head swiveled, neck turned like an owl, to face her.

Once death-by-crowbar was no longer impending and imminent, Beetlejuice realized two things: one, Lydia had come back for him, and even though he was sure it was only because he was designated driver, it was still nice to know she cared, and two, holy fuck Not-John was going to kill Lydia if he didn't do something.

Slowly, Beetlejuice got to his feet. And if you ignored the startling amount of ectoplasm, the crippling, horrible, literally-probably-the-eighth-worst-pain-he’d-ever-been-in feeling in his legs, his was practically fine.

And then he saw Lydia, backed up against the wall as the thing grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up to eye level. And as a general rule, Beetlejuice hated, hated, hated emotions, but the fierce protectiveness that surged in his stomach was an exception.

His next idea involved fire, fire, and pain and a whole lotta screaming, and boy did Not-John deserve it.

Shapeshifting was easy. Especially when he went for something like a raccoon or a cat or any sort of bug. Crocodiles and alligators worked too, but his favorite form by far was dragon-like in nature. Sporting the addition of a bunch of demon-y bits and, oh yeah, this version could breathe fire.

So he went for it. Eyes and teeth massive fucking claws as his jaw worked its way into a snout and horns sprouted from his forehead.

His power ran on emotion—well, that and death—and oh boy was Beetlejuice feeling a shitton of stupid whiny breather emotional crap.

Beetlejuice charged the thing straight on. He sprayed flame across it’s broad back, enjoying the way it shrunk, darting back like a snake.

Long story short—a long story full of screaming and ectoplasm and Beetlejuice possessing the house so exposed wiring flowed out of the walls and electrocuted the hell out of Not-John—the thing was dead. All that was left was a charred patch of ectoplasm as Not-John vanished with a soft pop.

Lydia looked at Beetlejuice, her face alight with a mixture of horror and awe.

“Did you kill it?”

Beetlejuice shrugged.

“Not for realsies or anything. You’d need a _really_ badass priest and like, a gallon of holy water if you even wanted to think about saying bye-bye to that asshole. Still, it’ll take him a while to make his way back to this plane of reality, so that's, y’know, that’s pretty cool.”

“Hey,” he said, after a moment of silence in which Lydia stared at the ground, and Beetlejuice attempted to wipe ectoplasm off his suit. “You didn't have to do that. Rushing in all heroic and, and Lyds, that thing was scary dangerous. Coulda killed you like taking candy from a baby so why’d you—”

He broke off as his throat just about sealed itself shut.

“He—it was hurting you,” Lydia said like it was obvious. “I saw and I _reacted_ and it was stupid because obviously, you can't actually die or anything. But Beej, you didn't see it—your hair was white and you looked like you’d—”

“Like I’d seen a ghost?” Beetlejuice chuckled at his own joke, feeling Lydia, all small and breather-y wrap her arms around him.

“No,” she said, quietly. “You looked small and all wrong, like you were really dead and I kept thinking ‘what if I never see him again and the last thing I said to him was _‘how about more running and less monologuing, okay?’_ and it’s so, so stupid and I couldn't let that be like, the last thing you ever heard me say, you know?”

“Nope. Not at all. Careful, kid or I might actually start to think you were worried about me,” Beetlejuice said. But he was smiling—not a thing he did a lot of—and he hugged her back as hard as he could.

“Beej,” she said, wincing. “If I wanted someone to strangle me that weird ghost thing would’ve done the job fine.”

“Oh.” Beetlejuice dropped his arms and rubbed at his hair.

“So,” he said. “Wanna go get McDonalds and eat so much we forget this ever happened?”

⁂

It was easy enough for Beetlejuice to bamboozle a bank machine as Lydia watched with a smug look on her face. Saying something about capitalism and ‘the man’. Whatever the fuck that meant—before going on to beg him to explain how he’d done it.

Beetlejuice didn't have an answer other than that circuits made his brain fuzzy and if he focused hard enough, it was like a lock clicking open in his head. Like possession with more steps, which didn't make a ton of sense, but Lydia nodded as he said, giving him a monosyllabic ‘cool’ as a response.

As the thing spat money into his hand, Beetlejuice stared at the bills in his hands. Green, with little pictures and numbers, and hell, the last time he’d even touched money had to have been well over a century ago.

“What’s it say?” he said, handing a bill to Lydia.

Beetlejuice didn't really get the whole reading thing. As if stupid, squiggly blobs actually meant anything to anyone. And he’d spent most of his early life convinced that everyone was just pretending to understand letters and words and all that shit to make him feel stupid; something he’d assumed Juno had put them up to. Of course, when he’d gotten older, Beetlejuice had realized that was, surprisingly, because oh boy was it something Juno would do, not the case.

“Beej,” Lydia said, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. “Beej, this is like, a shitton of money. Most places don't take hundred dollar bills anymore.”

Lydia frowned, forehead scrunching as she considered the slip of green paper.

“Can you get it to give you fives and tens?”

Beetlejuice shrugged.

“If you say so,” he said, handing her another wad of cash. “These better?”

Apparently, they were, and the pair headed off in search of a McDonalds.

See, the thing about teleportation was that Beetlejuice needed to have a good idea of what the place looked like or they might end up in like, New Mexico or some shit. Which totally wasn't something he’d done before, no, not at all, just a random example to provide clarity to the reader.

Thank god for Lydia’s phone and google and all that fucking jazz.

They appeared with a bang and a cloud of smoke in the McDonalds parking lot at approximately four in the morning.

And hey, the employees didn't even question the presence of a literal dead body of a person and a teenage girl dressed like a cartoon burglar showing up from out of nowhere in the middle of the night. What a time to be alive.

What Beetlejuice was trying to say was that, no, it wasn't the impromptu crime or the creepy dynamic or even the massive order that was the problem. The hard part was most certainly the talking. More accurately the lack of talking as they sat side by side on the curb outside the restaurant.

And okay, normally Beetlejuice would fucking relish the silence. Especially when he had half a big mac shoved in his mouth and there were fries and the fries were heaven, alright? If he ever ended up there, Beetlejuice would be the first to tell them to stuff it in favor of this, _that’s_ how fucking good the fries were. But there was something about the quiet that felt insidious and dumb and Beetlejuice hated it.

It did not, however, put off his appetite as he made the loud annoying straw noise that everyone hated and turned to stare at Lydia.

“So,” he started.

“So,” Lydia replied.

She, unlike him, had only picked at her fries, leaving her burger and milkshake abandoned altogether which was a fucking shame.

“I think I speak for both of us when I say let's never talk about that shitshow ever again.”

Lydia stayed silent, picking at the wrapper of her straw.

And Beetlejuice knew a ton of cool shit one could do with a straw wrapper. Spitballs, for one, launching the wrapper across the room, for another, and okay so maybe he only knew two, but better than nothing, right?

“I don't get it,” Lydia said, and by that time, her straw wrapper was nothing but shredded paper that littered the wet concrete. “I mean, I get it, obviously, like, I get that, that the newly dead must've been killed by the bigger, stronger ghost, and I mean, pretty awesome as far as hauntings go, but I don't know why I stopped you.”

“Breather instinct?” Beetlejuice raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard it’ll save your life.”

“Well, yeah, but it also, it felt really wrong when you possessed him. I felt like, like last time, and Beej—”

She gripped his shoulder as he tried to turn away, to look at anything except her because of course this was happening, of course, she fucking hated him after last time but was too nice to admit it. And what had Beetlejuice done? He’d taken her into a dangerous, potentially deadly haunting, and he was—

He was supposed to protect her, wasn't he?

“I don't want this to be like last time,” she said, fixing him with a set of worried brown eyes.

“No offense, Lyds, but my whole schtick hasn't changed in—" he counted on his fingers. “—one, three, eight-hundred-and-seventy-nine, yep—my math isn't exact but I’d say it’s been a while.”

“Can you try, though?” Lydia asked. Something in her face or maybe it was her tone, who the hell knew? But whatever it was, it reminded him of a stupidly innocent puppy or baby, and Beetlejuice nodded because he wasn't a monster. Except, he kind of was, but he was a monster who _cared_ , goddamnit.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Beetlejuice said, making a show out of straightening his suit. “I’ll be so darn tootin' nice that you’ll forget I'm—”

_Shit._

Beetlejuice startled. Not now, oh god not fucking now Jesus fuck could the author not fucking read the room? Why fucking now?

“What?” Lydia said, eyes shooting to his hair.

Aw fuck. Knowing from experience it had gone grey or white or, or red or something along those lines. He was feeling a bunch.

“Don't panic,” Beetlejuice said, which only made her look increasingly panicked. “It’s just that your geeky weirdo parents are kind of trying to summon me which means they know about all this.”

He was unable to stop himself from snickering.

_“Lydia Deetz,”_ he said, in his best intimidation of Chuckles, which was spot on because that was a thing he could do. _“You are so double grounded.”_

Lydia didn't seem to get the joke.

“Beej—” she started.

But that was all she managed before Beetlejuice was forcibly ripped through space. A hook through his ribcage. He landed unceremoniously on the living room couch and tumbled to the floor, nearly braining himself on the coffee table as he went.

Beetlejuice concentrated, pulling at reality like gum until Lydia appeared beside him, equally ruffled.

Slowly, he raised his head to see four faces. Expressions varying from anger (Daddy Deetz), to concern (Maitlands), and well, Delia had some sort of confused-slash-terrified combo going on. In short, he felt a little more than remotely threatened.

No one spoke as he got to his feet, dusting at his pants and shooting awkward finger guns at the group.

“So,” he said, almost, fine, definitely nervously. “You guys miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that happened.
> 
> time to entirely disregard the actual content of the chapter and yell for a sec. 
> 
> im changing my uploading schedule to every 5 days until i have a few more pre-written chapters to post, i have no idea how long this will take, soz, but in other news, my chapters get longer from here on out, so it's technically the same amount of content?? Whack, i know. please dont hate me too much.
> 
> also, also, random fun fact, i dyed my hair green to be like beetlejuice because im Shameless and this timeline is Cursed and who even gives a shit anymore? not me. i got green hair babey!!
> 
> thanks for reading, as always, love yall, please drop a comment or a kudos or juno will be in your room tonight. come yell at me on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) and i promise, i will yell back.


	7. Chapter 7

Lydia hardly had time to think as she stared up into the glaring faces of her dad, stepmom, and surrogate ghost parents before Barbara darted forward, wrapping her in a cold hug. 

That was when the room exploded.

The adults seemed to come to their senses, shaking off their stunned silence. Her dad stepped out from behind Delia, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him.

Lydia had to hand it to Beetlejuice, he sure knew how to make people scream. Even if this time it wouldn't be in fear so much as it would be a result of two months pent up frustration and anger. Aggression that was likely the end in an exorcism if they weren't careful.

“Oh my gosh, Lydia,” Barbara said, crushing Lydia tight against her chest.

Admittedly, it had been a traumatic night. Right then, all Lydia wanted to do was bury her head in Barbara’s shoulder and maybe try and convince her to make some of her stupidly delicious hot chocolate.

Instead, she got a hug that was broken up far too quickly as her father grabbed her arm, pulling her away from Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice, who stood beside her with an expression of complete and utter bafflement on his features, like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or start screaming. Lydia was sure she looked the same.

She staggered towards her dad, the final dredges of shock hitting her as she realized, for the first time that night, how exhausted she was. She could hardly believe that just that morning she was waking up to birdsong and Barbara’s offer of vegan pancakes.

“Get away from that thing,” her dad said, glaring daggers at Beetlejuice. He held Lydia against his side, an ill-intentioned shield between her and her demonic BFF-slash-weird-uncle-slash-brother.

“Are you alright?” her dad asked. He turned to Lydia, looking her up and down as if he expected to see horrible injuries covering her body.

Lydia nodded.

Once her dad deemed her unhurt, he nodded, almost to himself, releasing her from his grip and moving in Beetlejuice’s direction.

“What do you want with us? You, you, you—,” he stammered, clearly at a loss for words.

Beetlejuice opened his mouth, sharp yellow teeth, like a lion or a wolf.

“I-” Beetlejuice started, shutting his mouth with a frown.

She watched as his hair went from a mix of muddy greens to a light blue-grey color. Lydia had no idea what on earth that could mean. Blue was sad, but grey? The color of the smooth pebbles you can find at the side of a river or a lake; she’d never seen anything like it before.

Beetlejuice cleared his throat as her dad took another step towards him.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Beetlejuice said. “I kinda got myself kicked out of the netherworld for like, reasons. Such as my cool ‘i don't give a shit’ attitude and also I maybe sort of broke several laws.”

Beetlejuice paused, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Anyways,” he continued, after what might have been the single most uncomfortable moment of Lydia’s life. “Normally my mom’s happy enough to pull a bunch of hand-wavy bullshit to clean up my messes but not so much after spending a week stuck in a steaming pile of sandworm crap, ‘cause I tried to murder her, which, in hindsight, my bad, but, uh—”

He trailed off.

“He needs our help,” Lydia said, wincing as her father frowned at her. A frown that said ‘we will be discussing this later’ and ‘if you think sandworm shit is bad, the load of crap you’ve gotten yourself into is far, far worse.’

“I mean,” Beetlejuice said. “Chucklefuck and Debra are kind of useless...sexy and sexier are my only hope.”

He flashed a winning smile. Though his hair failed to reflect the sentiment, something that Lydia was sure he was betting on her parents not knowing about.

“That was rude,” he said, having noticed the resounding frowns. “Did I say useless? I meant, uh, well I'm sure you guys are good at something. You’ve got your little cutesy breather hobbies and shit. Is it just me or am I totally nailing this?”

Lydia shook her head.

“It’s my fault he’s here,” she said. “I, I summoned him last week, some girls were—well, it doesn't matter. He protected me and I couldn't help but—”

“Lydia,” Adam said, shellshocked. “You’re telling us you _summoned_ this, this man?”

“Not a man,” Beetlejuice remarked. “But yeah. She summoned me tons.”

Lydia winced. Her dad, who’d gone from angry to full-on rage mode, turned to face her, jaw clenched.

“How many times?” He asked.

“I—”

“Lydia, how many times did you bring this _creature_ into our home?”

“Technically, she only summoned me _here_ like, once, ‘cause obviously she didn't want to insight some weirdo parent rage freakout. Which hey,” Beetlejuice did awkward jazz hands. “Weirdo parent rage freakout.”

“Shut up,” Lydia said, ignoring his sounds of protest as she turned to the other adults. “I summoned him three times, and it was only because I needed help. He saved my life tonight.”

Lydia realized her mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. Beetlejuice must've noticed as well, because his yellow, usually slitted eyes went wide, pupils dilating like a startled cat.

“He, he did what now?” Her father yelled, and Beetlejuice seemed to shrink back into the shadows.

“Where did you take her?” he just about snarled, nose to nose with the demon.

Beetlejuice raised his hands as though he expected her dad to exorcise him then and there.

“Could you maybe cool it with the bad cop bad cop routine you got going on? ‘Cause oh man is it ever cramping my style,” Beetlejuice said, dropping his voice to a stage-whisper. “Intimidation is a _major_ turn on for me, so..”

He trailed off, clearly thinking of some disgusting R-rated shit. Lydia wasn't going to lie, the look on her dad’s face as he scrambled back away from Beetlejuice was fucking priceless.

“Where did you take her?” her dad repeated.

“Relax, not like she’s never seen a dead guy before, right? And, strictly speaking, the thing with the poltergeist was a doozy; could not have foreseen that if I tried. Plus, I got stabbed, like, five times, if anything, you guys should be thanking me.”

The silence was resounding.

“Too much?” Beetlejuice said, his hair wilting.

“Maybe it would help if you explained everything from the beginning,” Barbara said. “That way we could all get a better understanding of what exactly...happened. Does that sound fair?”

Beside her, Adam nodded.

“Great idea, Barbara,” he said, and Beetlejuice grinned.

“Holy shit you dipshits are so fucking sappy I love it. Like, we're talking hallmark movie levels of sappy. Neil Patrick Harris in the first Smurfs movie levels of sappy,” Beetlejuice said.

“Beej,” Lydia said. “Just, tell them what happened so we can get the yelling over with, yeah?”

Beetlejuice sighed, grumbling something about ‘insufferable breathers’ before proceeding to recount the events of the night with an air of an eighty-year-old history professor about to die of a heart attack. Actually, Lydia was sure even that would've been more interesting.

When he was done, everyone stared, slack-jawed.

“I knew it,” Delia said, breaking the silence. “Didn't I tell you, Charles? The second I got through the door I could’ve sworn I sensed a malignant presence.”

“Hey,” Beetlejuice said, mockingly affronted. “‘Malignant presences have feelings too, y’know.”

That set her dad off all over again.

“You took my daughter to see some, some middle-aged dead man in the middle of the night so you could beg him to help you with your hocus-pocus bullshit. After, and let me get this part straight, _you broke into his house_ ,” he said, gesticulating furiously.

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad,” Beetlejuice replied. “But you know me, Chuck, Lydia’s my BFFF forever, I wouldn't let anything happen to her.”

“You tried to marry her, and when that didn't go your way, you attempted to _kill_ us. Why the hell am I supposed to think you’ve got her best interests at heart?”

“Uhhhhh, ‘cause I'm reformed?” Beetlejuice batted his eyelashes.

“Murder is bad,” he continued, in an entirely unconvincing tone. “Soz, won't happen again, and I mean that from the bottom of my cold, dead heart.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Beetlejuice.”

“I know just a second ago you said the murder was off the table, but im down to reconsider if you assholes don't help me the fuck out,” Beetlejuice snapped, dropping his tone to a slightly more pitful version of his own. “Please—look, if you want, I can even pay you.”

With that, he pulled wads of cash from his jacket pockets. The hundred dollar bills they couldn't use. Beetlejuice grinned, pushing the money into Adam’s hand.

Adam winced.

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said, eyeing the money nervously as if it would transform into a wiggling pile of snakes at any moment.

“Or, if you want something slightly less useless, I take commissions. Decapitate your enemies, blah, blah, blah, eternal damnation. Hide the heads in the freezer so you can dethaw them for tooth-necklace purposes,” Beetlejuice pouted, fangs sticking out over his bottom lip. “C’mon you guys, you know I put the ‘sexy and fun’ in ‘brutal murder’.”

“No,” her father almost shouted. “We just want you out of our house, thank you very much.”

Beetlejuice frowned.

“I didn't hear a no to the decapitation thing.”

“The ‘decapitation thing’ is not an option I'm looking to pursue. Just,” her dad rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted by the situation. “How can we get you to leave?”

“One of those losers,” Beetlejuice jabbed a finger in the direction of the Maitlands. “Has to draw me a door.”

“That’s something we can actually do!” Barbara grinned.

“Great,” Lydia said flatly. “He gets his door, the parentals get a demon-free household, everyone’s happy.”

Truthfully, Lydia was far from it. She’d hoped, rather naively, even by her own admission, that somehow, Beetlejuice would end up staying and she’d get to keep her demon buddy, her only real friend. And god, it was pathetic, she _knew_ it was pathetic.

She just—

Well, it was stupid. Stupid enough that she’d rather die than admit but she cared about him, alright? She cared about the scruffy mess of a person that embodied the energy of a coked-up homeless man. Whatever, it was fine, _she_ was fine.

Beetlejuice tossed Barbara the chalk.

Everyone stayed silent while she drew the door. As if saying the wrong thing would lose them their one chance at being rid of Beetlejuice, who was bouncing on his heels like a child at Christmas.

Beetlejuice turned to Lydia, overjoyed to be returning home.

“You know what I'm gonna do the second I get down there?” He said, his mouth stretching into a Cheshire-cat grin.

“What?” Lydia asked, dutifully.

“I'm gonna stick it to my mom. I’ll fucking, march in there and bam! ‘Fuck you, mom. What have you ever done for me, you worthless slut? Huh, no answer? Oh, is it because you never did a single fucking thing? Yeah, that’s what I thought, you piece of crap.’ And then I’ll dropkick her into a dumpster. That’ll show her.”

“Sounds good, Beej,” Lydia shrugged. Only half listening, she watched as the door swung open, green smoke pouring through the ever-widening crack.

“Is that really what you think?”

The voice of a woman, a voice that Lydia remembered all too well. Juno, ruler of the netherworld, and, unfortunately, Beetlejuice’s complete and utter bitch of a mom.

And last Lydia had seen of her, the woman had been swallowed by a sandworm. In all honesty, it had been hard for Lydia to believe Juno could've ever come back after such a gruesome (though timely) death. But here she was, two months later, alive and kicking as if the whole sandworm thing had never happened.

And it was safe to say that Juno was very, very angry.

Beetlejuice flinched as his mother grabbed him by the back of his hair. Pulling him away from the entrance to the netherworld.

Juno tutted with disappointment, her eyes flickering lazily around the room. The look on her face was reminiscent of a predator sizing up its next meal.

“Pathetic,” she spat.

“Mom, I—”

“You honestly thought you could come waltzing back into the netherworld like you owned the place?” Her lip curled into a sneer. “After what you did? Cute. I told you there’d be consequences, Lawrence, and it’s time for you to be a man for once in your life and face them.”

“I’ll—I can fix it. I promise. But you gotta let me come back home.”

“I don't have to let you do anything, boy.”

“I know that but c’mon. I mean, I don't fancy staying topside for another six-hundred years, and you’ve said it yourself, I’m very, very good at ‘fucking shit up’ so to speak, and you can bet I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

Beetlejuice stepped backward, eyes wide, hair flattening out like a cornered cat.

“Are you threatening me?” She said, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until the two of them were eye level.

Lydia winced.

“No I just—I just think it would make more sense if you didn't, you know, banish me for all of eternity a second time over.” Beetlejuice paused, attempting fruitlessly to pry himself from her grip. “I'm not trying to play the blame game or anything but, uh, that didn't exactly work out for you last time.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“Mine, it was mine but—”

“Do you remember why I cursed you in the first place?”

Beetlejuice’s hair went blue faster than she’d ever seen it shift. His mouth pulling into a frown.

“I—you promised you wouldn't bring that up,” he said, biting down on his bottom lip until Lydia saw black blood start to pool around the tips of his fangs.

“And you promised you wouldn't visit these infernal breathers,” Juno said. “You and me both know that promises don't mean a single thing.”

Beetlejuice was uncharacteristically silent.

Almost unwillingly, Lydia felt herself take a step forward, seconds from shooting a barrage of insults at the woman claiming to be Beetlejuice’s mother. The woman—demon? Who talked to him like he was a complete waste of space.

However, before she could attempt any of that, Lydia felt her dad’s arms wrap themselves around her midsection as he pulled her away from the demons.

“Lydia, don't,” he said. Although there was something pained about his expression. Regret? Anger? Lydia wasn't sure. But it was the fear, the uncertainty that made her stay silent.

What if Juno hurt her dad? Hurt Delia? The Maitlands? Beetlejuice could protect himself, Lydia knew that now, after seeing him with the poltergeist. It was only a matter of if he was willing to step up against his mother.

At the moment, he seemed paralyzed with fear.

“I wonder what they’d think of you if I told them what you did,” Juno said. “If I told them what you tried to—”

Beetlejuice’s expression quickly went frantic as he clamped his hands over his ears. His hair a miserable orangish-yellow accompanied by streaks of white and pale blue.

Juno’s grip on his collar tightened.

“You will pay attention when I'm speaking to you,” she said, and Beetlejuice relented.

Moving almost as if he’d been possessed, Beetlejuice removed his hands from over his ears, head dropping to the floor so Lydia could no longer see his eyes.

Juno surveyed the group with a triumphant air. She knew she had them beat.

“If you even try to come back, boy, I will not hesitate to have you _removed_.”

Beetlejuice clearly knew that meant because he tensed. A look of dread on his face.

With that, Beetlejuice slumped to his knees, all but defeated. His hair darkened to a dull blue as he held his hands to his face, eyes wide with shock.

“Goodbye Lawrence,” she said, stepping back through the doorway.

Green mist as she vanished, her footsteps echoing, at first, before tapering off altogether.

Beetlejuice didn't say anything. His chest heaved as an odd, frightened noise escaped him, the sort of noise a threatened cat might make.

Once the wall had resealed itself, with Adam furiously wiping away at the chalk, the room was plunged into stark silence.

“That was embarrassing,” Beetlejuice mumbled, looking like he was trying very, very hard not to cry.

Immediately, her dad reverted to anger.

“What the hell was that?” He demanded. “You’ve been here for just over ten minutes and already you managed to cause a, a scene. That’s what you do, isn't it? You cause scenes. Well, I won't have it. I want you out of my house.”

He shouted the last part, and Beetlejuice was on his feet in an instant, overly large pupils and he looked like he very much wanted to vanish into thin air. In fact, he tried very hard to do so, screwing his eyes shut and reappearing a foot to the left, his legs threatening to buckle under his weight.

“Dad,” Lydia said. “Dad, there’s something wrong with him, he’s—”

“Quiet, Lydia,” he said, approaching the demon. Arms raised threateningly. “If he knows what’s good for him he’ll—”

A bang and a puff of smoke, the briefest burst of flame and Beetlejuice disappeared.

“I’ll go after him,” he dad said, starting towards the door. Like if he drove around the neighborhood enough times, he might be able to find the demon crouched behind a rosebush or some other unlikely shit that was never going to happen in a million years

But Lydia had had enough. Vacillating between shock and anger, she grabbed his arm, forcing him to whirl around and face her.

“No, he’s—did you see what she did to him?”

“Yes, and frankly, it does not make me feel better about having him in the house. Or around my daughter,” he said. “We need to be ready for him if he comes back. Hire a real exorcist this time.”

“That’s right,” Delia added. “But as a life coach—”

“Ex-life coach,” Lydia snarked.

Delia continued as if she hadn't heard her.

“As a life coach, I think it would be...beneficial if we gave him some time to cool off. Last time he was upset, he conjured that awful game show, and, and we all know the police have yet to find Kevin,” Delia trailed off. “I mean, it’s not like the man didn't deserve it, but—”

“I see your point,” her dad replied.

“We don't want a body count,” Adam added, taking Barbara’s hand in his own.

“So we agree that we should be cautious,” Delia said. “Yes is more!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lydia snorted.

“Oh, just something I saw on a tote bag once. Empowering, right?”

“Sure, Honey,” her dad said. His attention had not left the place where Beetlejuice had stood. Like he expected the demon to reappear, all smoke and maniacal laughter as he threatened to destroy the known universe. Lydia could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“This has been insane, and as much as I love watching my parents discuss how best to exorcise my pet demon, I think I'm gonna go to bed,” Lydia said, stifling a yawn.

“Of course, honey,” Barbara said.

With that, Lydia escaped to the quiet confines of her room.

⁂

Working quickly—she didn't know how much time she had before her father went apeshit—Lydia scrubbed off the remains of her makeup, pulling on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

She moved towards the window. Pulling it open, cold air brushing up against her face.

On second thought, she scooped her hoodie up from the floor, tugging it over her head, Lydia stepped out onto the roof.

The sky was pink with the sunrise, misted with sparse, fluffy clouds. It made for a pretty sight, punctuated only by birdcall and the sounds of a demon rambling to himself.

“Hey Beej,” Lydia said, hesitant.

Beetlejuice was seated at the edge of the roof, legs dangling out over the side as he stared at his lap, hardly seeming to acknowledge her presence.

Lydia plopped down next to him, shivering against the wind.

“For what it’s worth, I'm sorry,” she said, tugging at the hem of her sweatshirt. “About your mom, and the whole thing with my parents.”

Beetlejuice turned his head to face her. She noted the redness of his eyes, like he’d been crying, the way his hair tufted black, nearly flat against his skull.

“They can be crazy overprotective,” she continued. “But they’re good, really good. I know that now. They won't hurt you, not like—”

“My shitshow of a mom, huh?” he said. “You’re awfully patronizing for a seven-year-old.”

“I'm fifteen,” Lydia said. “Sixteen in a month.”

“Yeah? And I'm uh—” he paused, clearly unsure. “—old. Doesn't make much of a difference to me.”

“I guess not.”

Lydia shifted closer to him. For a dead guy, Beetlejuice practically radiated heat. A trait that must’ve been exclusive to demons because when it came to touch, the Maitlands were like ice.

“No offense, but you don't seem all that old,” she said.

Beetlejuice shrugged.

“‘Cause I act like a coked-up five-year-old, is that right?”

“A little.”

“Apparently I'm _thirty_ —give or take a bunch.” Beetlejuice wrinkled his nose. “‘Course, when it comes to demonic entities, time isn't exactly the most linear thing in the world.”

Lydia nodded.

Beside her, Beetlejuice trailed off into nonsense. Some story about sex with an occultist involving a lot of inappropriate hand gestures, leering, and NSFW puppets. Lydia hardly heard him over her thoughts, spinning endlessly with worry.

What if Beetlejuice’s mom came back? What if her dad kicked Beetlejuice out and then his mom came back? Only, he wasn't there so she took the Maitlands with her instead? Or somehow, he died for real and she’d never see him again, and then when she died, she’d go looking for him in the netherworld only to find he was gone and dead and she hadn't even known about it.

Beetlejuice nudged her shoulder with his nose, the way a dog might.

“—and then he tried to castrate me with holy water,” he said, wincing at the thought. “Lyds, Lyds, Lydia? Are you even listening?”

“You're—"

Lydia stopped, started again. “You’re okay, right? Your mom’s not going to come back and, and—”

“Doubt it,” Beetlejuice said. “Eternal banishment tends to go both ways—heh—she’d have a hard time getting to me without a bitch of a headache to show for it.”

His fingers sparked miserably, browning the cuffs of his jacket. Lydia stared, not quite believing him.

“What?” he said, the tips of his hair going pink. “I got something on my face?”

“What was your mom talking about back there? She never said why she cursed you in the first place,” Lydia said, unsure if she ever wanted to know the answer.

“Nothing. S’boring,” he said, staring blankly ahead. “Ancient history, really.”

Lydia hummed in acknowledgment.

“Okay,” she said, trying to stop her teeth from chattering.

It was cold up on the roof. Prone to damp gusts of wind that cut straight through the thin fabric of her pajamas, effectively chilling her to the bone. It was nice though, sitting next to Beej. He was warm, warm, and soft, and Lydia had never had a sibling, but she imagined this must be what it felt like. Like, he was weird and kind of dumb and always annoying but she was okay with that, in fact, it made her feel safe.

“Really?” Beetlejuice said, and Lydia raised her eyebrows.

“Really what?” She asked, confused as to what he was on about.

“You’re not gonna go all twenty-one questions on me? Try and get me drunk so I'll spill? Which won't work, by the way, I'm a crier like you’ve never seen.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Uhh, juicy gossip? Blackmail material? Always nice having dirt on the demon you summoned to do your bidding; less of a chance we’ll screw you over with pesky little clauses.”

“That’s stupid,” Lydia replied, resting her head on his shoulder. “Besides, I've already got a ton of blackmail.”

“Do not,” Beetlejuice stuck out his decidedly inhuman tongue. “Trust me, I’d know if you did. I'm practically the king of blackmail.”

Lydia smirked.

“You fell asleep on the couch during our haunt-ravaganza and I drew a dick on your forehead in sharpie. I’ve got _loads_ of pictures if you don't believe me.”

Beetlejuice groaned, flopping backward and shutting his eyes so he resembled a two-day-old corpse.

“‘Course you did. And here I was thinking one of my clones left that particular gem. Thanks, by the way, it took ages—and I mean ages—to scrub off.”

“I'm surprised you subjected yourself to soap.”

“Rude,” Beetlejuice said, but some of the green had started to return to his hair. That, coupled with the tentative smile on his face and the way he seemed to have settled, told Lydia he was going to be alright.

“You know, my dad would probably be alright with you sleeping on the couch,” she said, and, upon noticing his alarm, she backtracked. “Only if you want. It’s not like, a big deal or anything. Who knows? The parentals might even warm up to you if you stick around long enough.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I'm immortal, one hundred percent guarantee I'll be kicking around when the sun burns out and hell freezes over, huh?”

“Funny,” Lydia said. “But seriously, once I get my dad on board, I'm sure everyone will be fine with having you crash here.”

Beetlejuice raised an eyebrow, an extra set of arms crossing themselves over his chest in disbelief.

“I can be very convincing.”

“Sure, kid.”

“Beej—”

“Stop pushing it, Lyds,” he said, and from the red in his hair, Lydia could tell he was genuinely upset. “I'm tellin’ ya, there’s no way daddy dearest will let me stay.”

⁂

“He can stay,” her dad said, resigned to his fate. His whole body seemed to slump as he spoke, as though the words physically pained him. “The Maitlands can keep an eye on him until I get home, after that, we will be having a serious talk about all this. And you, young lady, need to get some sleep.”

Lydia nodded, eying Beetlejuice.

The demon looked like he was about to puke. I was kind of funny, almost like the time she’d tried to pet a possum. Right before it had hightailed off to god-knows-where, the creature had looked so stupidly overwhelmed that Lydia had taken a picture. She still had the picture somewhere, among her mess of photo albums, the boxes crammed into her closet.

Lydia, on the other hand, was overjoyed at the prospect of having the demon stay, so much so that she accepted a one-armed hug from her father, allowing him to peck her on the cheek.

Her dad nodded to her, glared at Beetlejuice. Straightening out his suit, he grabbed his briefcase, shutting the front door with a slam.

Outside, Lydia heard the sound of a car engine starting, watched her father’s Tesla pass by the window and down the street.

Beetlejuice let out a rather strangled breath.

“You good?” Lydia asked.

“I am—am I good?” Beetlejuice said. “I feel, uh, I guess I feel normal, murder-y and stuff, kinda horny, I don't…”

He trailed off.

“You gonna be alright if I nap for a few hours?” Lydia said. “The Maitlands are doing some lame basement reorganization thing, you could probably join them if you want. Kitchen’s full of food if you’re hungry. You can take anything you like.”

“Anything?” Beetlejuice’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas.

“Yeah, only one who will notice is Barbara and I doubt she’d care. We normally get takeout for dinner anyway so you should be fine.”

“Kay,” Beetlejuice said, immediately darting to the pantry, hovering slightly so he could reach the higher shelves.

Lydia was content to leave him to it, turning towards the stairs, she spared one last glance at the demon.

“Oh, and Beej?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't burn the house down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really fucking fond of this chapter. beej is a sweetheart and i love him, what else is there to say?
> 
> A lot, probably, because im like that. Uhhhh, first things first, im writing so slowly, i have like, two chapters prewritten after this and then updates might get a little less regular for a bit. Honestly though, it depends on how much i write over the next few days so wish me luck!! ur comments and kudos sustain me so please be liberal with that shit.
> 
> first chaper with the entire squad so that was fun. Do i know how to write any of these fucking characters? no. Will i try? unfortunately yes. 
> 
> i got a zoom call in four minutes so i gotta be quick with the last few things. follow me on tumblr @iswearimnotahorsegirl, where i shitpost about beej, and (last thing i promise) extra special thanks to robin for being my favourite human person, thank youuuu!!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuhh popping in here w a quick cw, this chapter includes depiction of self harm in the second scene. Stay safe you guys!!

Barbara found him sprawled on the kitchen table eating from a box of Lucky Charms. 

And at first, Beetlejuice thought she’d be mad. Like, yelling mad, ‘get your feet off the table and while you’re at it, why don't you get the fuck out of my house before I call a priest’ mad. Instead, Barbara just stared at him like she’d seen a ghost.

Not funny? Whatever.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, cackling so hard he fell off the table.

Beetlejuice got to his feet, crossing his legs and hovering at eye-level. He considered her with an air of what he hoped was condescension but was probably closer to desperation.

She still looked a little murderous, so Beetlejuice decided to elaborate.

“Daddy cleared me to stay, so don't go all ‘the power of Christ compels you’ on me. Not that it would work. Or, it would, but it’s normally easier to exorcise a demon if they aren't kinda sorta still tied to the house ‘cause of the time they were brutally murdered in the living room.”

“Lydia told me you were down here,” Barbara said. “I came to check if—”

“The house was still intact?” Beetlejuice said. “Don't worry, Babs. I work quick, but not that quick”

“No I, uh, I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Beetlejuice stared at her blankly, tipping cereal from the box to his hand and popping it in his mouth.

“I have literally never been better,” he said. Incomprehensible around the multiple mouthfuls of stupid breather marshmallow cereal that made his teeth hurt but in a good way.

“That’s good to hear,” Barbara stared at the floor.

And holy shit was she adorable. All soft and blonde and Beetlejuice tried not to think about how much he wanted to lick her throat, which was actually a lot harder than it sounded and if he wasn't careful his dick was going to a lot harder too and oh fuck.

He clenched his fists and wondered if she would be alright with him excusing himself to jack off in the bathroom for like, a few minutes. Probably not, right? That would be bad manners, something his mom was always going on about. He figured he shouldn't risk it, doing his best to think about non-horny shit for the time being.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes lighting. “I was going to show you the guest room. I mean, I'm sure I’d be exhausted if I were you, from all the poltergeist-fighting.”

Beetlejuice was entirely, hell, he was _eternally_ grateful to Barbara for not bringing up the elephant in the room. The elephant being Juno, who was, at present, not someone he wanted to even think about, much less hold a conversation about with his—ugh, dare he?

He daren’t.

Fine. He had a huge stupid crush on Barbara and also Adam and it was dumb as shit ‘cause they were both like, super pretty and nice and cool. Definitely not the type to bone a demon, especially the chaotic fucked up disaster area of a not-person that was Beetlejuice.

“I'm sorry to break it to you but demons don't need sleep, Barbara,” he said after an uncomfortably long pause.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still nice, you know. Having a fresh start each day.”

“You’re being like, disgustingly cute right now. I'm talking if a rainbow farting unicorn had a baby with a puppy that shits marshmallow fluff, and then that baby went and had a baby with an actual human baby,” Beetlejuice said. “It’s giving me a boner.”

“Oh my gosh,” Barbara said. “Would you stop doing that?”

Beetlejuice frowned. She looked mad. Which, okay, probably meant he was being gross and fuck, he could never tell with breathers. Because sometimes they wanted him to flirt with them, or, not flirt, Beetlejuice wasn't sure if he _could_ flirt. But usually, the ones that summoned him for, you know, the sex sort of thing, were into the perverse comments. And Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice wanted more than anything else for literally anybody to be like ‘hey, I will ride you like a fucking formula one racecar’ but clearly Barbara...didnt. But then, maybe she did.

“I have no idea what you mean,” was what he settled on for a reply. Discovering, to his great disappointment, that he’d eaten all the Lucky charms.

Barbara sighed.

“Have you—you _have_ heard of boundaries before? Like, you have a general understanding of...” she paused. “Okay, um, if I say ‘hey, I don't like when you make suggestive comments,' that’s setting a boundary, and it would be wrong of you to cross that boundary. Do you understand?”

Beetlejuice shrugged, tearing a strip off the box and putting it in his mouth. It tasted like cardboard and marshmallow-dust, not a bad combo.

“I don't want to be kissed or touched, and I don't appreciate the comments. And Adam doesn't either, understood?” she continued.

And Beetlejuice didn't _get_ it, not really. It didn't mean anything, it wasn't like he was actually going to—ugh, not a thing he wanted to think about. Not when—just, eww, alright? He would never, ever do anything like that so why was she—

“Do you understand?”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll knock it off if it makes you happy.”

She nodded, satisfied.

“I can still _think_ whatever I want though, right?”

Her jaw went tight and she inhaled slowly through her nose, doing a ‘hold your breath and count to ten to refrain from positively murdering the demon you’re stuck with while his BFFF takes a nap,’ sort of thing.

“Fuck,” Beetlejuice said. “Fuck I didn't mean—”

“It’s alright,” she held up a hand. “As long as you’re trying. You are trying?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm just—none of this shit has even been a thing for me. I know it’s kinda iffy, ‘cause sex is touchy for breathers, with everyone only liking specific genders and positions and shit, which, by the way, you should be eternally grateful to me for not letting you guys go to the netherworld. You and your smoke show of a—uh, your husband would've been eaten alive. Probably literally if you know what I'm talking about.”

He paused, noting the expression on her face.

“I hear myself, shutting up now.”

Barbara appeared at a loss for words as Beetlejuice continued to crunch cardboard.

“But you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t actually do anything without...” she trailed off, twisting her ring around her finger.

She looked...uncomfortable, to say the least.

“Jesus, Babs, what kinda asshole do you take me for? No way would I ever—no. Fuck no.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “But I had to be sure. Especially for Lydia’s sake.”

Beetlejuice grimaced in disgust. That was, to put it succinctly, not something he wanted to think about.

“Gosh,” he said. “Listen, woman, when I say I would never lay a fucking finger on Lydia, okay? It goes without saying. So don't go adding that one to the house rules.”

Barbara nodded, and surprisingly, she actually looked less like she wanted to smash his skull with her bare hands.

“Good,” she said. “Because I’ve been working on my ghostly powers and if you hurt her, I’ll, I’ll, well, I don't exactly know yet, but it won't be good.”

“I’m quaking in terror.”

“You should be,” she said, arms crossed over her chest. “Now about that guest room.”

⁂

As a general rule, Beetlejuice hated showers.

Barbara led him to the guest room, which, for posterity’s sake, was a moderately sized room with carpeted flooring and a bed full of throw pillows. The walls were covered in gaudy yellow paint that made Beetlejuice want to rip his eyes out through his sockets, good? Okay. Carrying on.

Barbara. Guest room. Her hand on his shoulder as she steered him in the direction of the door Beetlejuice was assuming led to that bathroom.

“One more thing,” she said. “You smell terrible.”

“Thanks,” Beetlejuice nodded, eyebrows raised. “Is that all?”

“You’re going to shower, mister. Whether you like it or not,” she said, somewhere between joking and deadly serious.

Beetlejuice winced.

“Shower? Are you kidding? I don't _do_ showers.”

“I can tell,” Barbara replied. “But there’s no way I can have you walking around the house smelling like, like a rotting corpse.”

“Jeeze, fighting words, right there. But fine. If it makes you happy, I’ll suds my flesh-prison,” he relented. Already trudging off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Good,” she said, arms crossed over her chest. Beetlejuice could tell, he could fucking tell Barbara was all proud of herself for getting him to shower. And he hated, hated, hated to ruin the moment for her, so he sighed. Very much dreading what was to come.

“Spare towels are in the closet,” she gestured to a second door. “Soap, shampoo, and conditioner are under the sink. You do… you do know how to shower, right?”

Beetlejuice snorted through his nose. He could tell she was being serious. First of all: rude, and second of all: fucking hilarious.

“I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that,” he said, opening the bathroom door and flicking on the lights.

“That wasn't a yes.”

“Fuck’s sake, Babs, I'm a fully grown demon. ‘Course I know how to shower.”

And he wasn't going to add that on the odd chance he showered, it was almost always for sexy purposes. Mostly without the explicit intent of getting clean, but shower sex was great and showering…wasnt. For a multitude of reasons.

“Okay, of course, I just…” Barbara trailed off.

“Much as I enjoy listening to you shove your foot so far down your throat you could pull it out your asshole, I'm gonna—”

Beetlejuice shut the door, waited until her soft footsteps receded and he was sure she was gone before moving to stare at himself in the mirror.

He had to, okay, he just had to fucking get this over with and then he could put this shit behind him. That was fine. Beetlejuice could do that.

He stripped. Jacket, tie, unbuttoned his shirt before tossing it to the ground, pants, socks, and boxers came next.

A cursory glance in the mirror and Beetlejuice found he looked pretty much the same as he always did. A little bloodier, but the stab wounds had been reduced to mere scratches. Other than that, it was standard shit, muddy green hair, pale blotchy skin, wide yellow eyes, etcetera, etcetera.

As he started the shower, Beetlejuice let out a long-suffering sigh. The water was warm and it was actually kind of nice, draining a murky brown-grey around his feet. At least, it was nice for about two seconds before he started to think.

Beetlejuice hated thinking.

Thinking meant remembering shit like getting impaled with bad art, and how much he’d deserved it, and then hating himself even more because demons weren't supposed to be able to care about this sort of thing. And he didn't. Not usually, but now they were actually being nice to him, which was all wrong because he’d hurt them, tried to exorcise Barbara and murder Lydia’s dad. Hell, he’d sent that nerdy guru dude off to who-knows-where.

Chaos was good, Beetlejuice knew, but repentance was bad with a capital ‘b’, aka the reason he tended not to stick around after his misdeeds. And he was stuck here with these breathers who—

God, they probably hated having him around. Probably saw him and wished they could kill him all over again. Fat, stupid, demonic fuckup such as himself.

Almost unwillingly, Beetlejuice dug sharp nails into the flesh of his biceps, watching sticky black ectoplasm run over his skin, disappearing down the drain. He liked it, the hurt. Like there was some disgusting, horrible thing trapped inside him and if he tore into his flesh he might be able to get it out.

See, that was why he hated showers so darn fucking much.

Beetlejuice washed his hair rather shakily after that. Tugging roughly at his scalp, he used his claws to pull through the knotted tangles.

He hardly realized when tears started to drip down his cheeks.

And it was all Juno’s fault. Yelling and looking at him in that way that meant there’d be pain and suffering to follow. The worst bit was when she’d almost brought up the reason for his curse, something he never wanted to think about again, thank you very much.

The thing was, Juno was very, very good at making him feel nonexistent. And Beetlejuice would be lying if he said he didn't resent her for the way he turned out. The way she’d refused to let him eat. Sleep, too, was out of the question. Dotting his arms with cigarette burns and bruises and screaming at him like he was somehow solely responsible for every single thing wrong with the entire fucking universe.

And then, when he was old enough to get out, get away from her and her bullshit, instead of getting better, things had gone from very bad to The Worst.

Beetlejuice rubbed his face with a washcloth. Unsure if he meant to clean his face, or simply wipe away the tears that had gathered there. The cloth came away spotted green with mold coupled with black streaks of century-old makeup.

In fact, things had gotten so bad that Beetlejuice had been tempted to crawl back to Juno, which was exactly what she’d wanted. The dependence, having someone there to take it out on if things went sideways, which, when Juno was involved, they always did.

But Beetlejuice had stuck it out. He'd hardly known how to take care of himself because she’d never fucking taught him. All the times he’d accidentally set himself on fire or broke things. One notable incident had ended with his couch sailing straight through his window, and holy shit, not a thing he wanted to think about.

Beetlejuice shut off the shower, alarmed at how much time had passed.

He was clean now though, at least, so Barbara wouldn't yell at him, and hopefully, the others wouldn't either. Even if he _had_ used an entire bar of soap and half the shampoo because his hair was practically superglued with muck. It felt soft and kind of floppy and he realized with a start that he had no idea what the hell it would look like in its natural state.

As he scrubbed at it with a towel, Beetlejuice eyed the mirror to find that his hair had gone dark, murky blue. And yeah, that checked out.

Beetlejuice wanted more than anything else to finish drying off so he could collapse into bed and try to forget the events of the day had ever happened. If he was lucky, he’d be able to sleep straight through the afternoon and on into the next morning.

Beetlejuice dropped the towel. Glaring at himself in the mirror, he fumbled for his boxers.

It was a surprise when he found the clothes folded at the end of the bed. Clothes he assumed were Charles’. An old band tee and sweatpants.

Without a second thought, Beetlejuice pulled the shirt over his head. It was soft, far more comfortable than his suit. Even if it was ill-fitting, stopping midway down his thighs, tight against his shoulders and stomach.

He didn't bother with the pants, who needed 'em anyways? And flopped gracelessly onto the bed, pulling the covers up to over his head and curling into a ball.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

Beetlejuice clamped his teeth over his first and sobbed into the sheets.

Eventually, however, he slipped off into a light doze. Grateful, perhaps for the first time in his life, for the all-consuming nothingness of sleep.

⁂

Beetlejuice got five hours.

Five hours before he heard a sharp knock on his door. He squirmed deeper into the sheets and hoped whoever it was would go the fuck away if he ignored them long enough.

Unfortunately for him, that wasn't the case

Instead, Beetlejuice was met with the sound of the door opening. He cracked his eyes open to stare at the intrusion.

Barbara. Eyeing him with evident concern.

Beetlejuice sat up in bed and blinked back. Trying for intimidation, but give him a break, he’d just cried himself to sleep and was about two seconds from a complete and utter nervous breakdown. Involving things like him screaming and people dying and he never felt better afterward, but he never felt worse either, so he figured that as far as coping mechanisms go, it was pretty alright.

“Beetlejuice?” She said.

He blinked, shrugging the blankets off his shoulders and kicking his feet over the edge of the bed.

“Whaddya want?” Beetlejuice mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Adam made dinner,” she said. “And we were wondering if you wanted to join us. You don't have to, of course. I just thought it might be nice to uh—so we could get to know you a little better?”

She said the last bit like it was a question and Beetlejuice stifled a grin.

“‘Course I would," he said, as he was never not hungry and also he wanted to check up on Lyds. Make sure she wasn't, like, traumatized by the shit he’d pulled or whatever.

He rubbed at his face in a weak attempt to wipe away at the obvious exhaustion.

“I’ll uh, i'll be right down.”

Barbara nodded.

“Hey, um, Delia gave me a bunch of Charles’ old clothes if you want to change.” She gestured to the folded stack of clothes she’d set on the floor.

“Kay,” Beetlejuice said, like he wasn’t both shorter and chubbier than the other man.

Beetlejuice got to his feet, ignoring Barbara’s wince when she realized he was without pants and proceeded to pointedly stare anywhere but in his direction.

At this, Beetlejuice grinned, grabbing for a pair of worn jeans. His grin only widened once he’d zipped them up and Babra stopped panicking over his pantslessness.

“You look so...normal,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “Did you seriously think I wore a stripy suit all the time?”

At her hesitant nod, he continued.

“Oh hell no. That things’ uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Then why do you wear it?” She asked, before placing a hand over her mouth. ”I'm sorry, I guess I'm just interested to—you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Boundaries go both ways.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck why’d she have to be so brain-meltingly adorable? Did she not know what that did to a demon? Especially a demon such as himself who’d only had terrible sex with monster-fuckers for the last century. Yeah, didn't think so.

“Babs—demon remember? I don't have boundaries. You could ask me literally anything and I'd tell you. Oversharing is the name of the game,” he trailed off. “As for the getup, not my choice. Wore the suit for like, one scene in the movie, and then, of course, the cartoon but that doesn't count. Long story short, the wardrobe department decided they were into it. Titular characters gotta titular character and all that jazz. Gives the audience something to look at.”

“What?” Barbara said, looking even more confused, which Beetlejuice was totally into.

“This is fanfiction,” he stage-whispered. “Fanfics’ got different tropes. And according to ninety-nine percent of fangirls, you guys like me better when I dress like some loser who lives in his mom’s basement, so." He eyed her, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“I'm not going to pretend I understood any of that,” Barbara said. “But whatever you say, Mr. Beetlejuice.”

Beetlejuice blinked.

“Why do you and Adam keep calling me that? S’not even my last name.”

He wasn't going to mention that hearing his name hurt in a buzzing sort of way that tasted like fun dip and felt like unbridled power, but more importantly, it _hurt_. Although Barbara was dead, and therefore unable to summon him even if she wanted to, the lack of pain was somehow more jarring.

“So just Beetlejuice then?” She said. “Or, or Lawrence? If you’d prefer we call you by your first name.”

“Ugh, no, none of that first name shit either, BJ’s fine.”

“You want us to call you BJ as in…” she trailed off.

“Wow, Babs, get your mind outta the gutter,” Beetlejuice said. “And yes, more than anything.”

Barbara rolled her eyes and motioned for him to follow him out of the room. And it almost felt like they’d had a moment. Not that Beetlejuice would recognize a moment if it slapped him in the face and stole his nonexistent lunch money, but still, it was...nice.

⁂

Dinner was interesting.

First, there was the matter of Lydia. Who was weirded out by his hair. Until, annoyed with her snickering at how ‘flat and uninspired’ it looked—her words, not his—Beetlejuice let it puff back up to its usual state.

And secondly, there was Charles. The man radiated disdain and Beetlejuice was convinced he would snap at any minute.

Beetlejuice wouldn't blame him if he did. He _had_ tried to kill the man, and there was also the whole child bride thing. Coupled with the more recent issue of Beetlejuice taking his daughter to see an old dead guy. Which he now knew was bad. Even though it was more than a little hypocritical when one considered the fact that yes, Beetlejuice was also an old dead guy.

Charles didn't hesitate to glare at Beetlejuice. Making Beetlejuice wish he was small enough to hide behind Lydia, who he’d taken to trailing like a newborn puppy.

Don't get him wrong, Beetlejuice knew it was pathetic. He couldn't help the distrust, the fear that bubbled in his gut. Threatening nausea as he stared at his feet and prayed the fucking floor would swallow him whole.

When such an event failed to occur, Beetlejuice took the seat beside Lydia. Who jostled his shoulder and chatted about her plans to scare the neighborhood kids. Apparently, they'd taken to hiding behind the backyard fence whilst loudly debating the hauntedness of the house. Occasionally, a particularly brave soul would dart up the front steps and ring the doorbell before running off again.

And normally, Beetlejuice would be on that shit like white rice. Down to fucking clown, baby, but tonight, tonight was a different story.

Not in a million years would he have admitted it, but Beetlejuice felt...wrong. Wrong as in his arms still ached from where he’d sliced at his flesh. His head hurt too. And Beetlejuice wasn't quite sure but he thought he could feel one of those ‘I can't fucking breathe and I have no idea why’ thingies coming on.

“Mr. Juice?” Delia said, and Beetlejuice suppressed a snort. “My husband and I were talking, and we think now would be a better time than ever to go over some...guidelines, so to speak.”

“We have several questions,” Charles cut in. “You are surely aware that you are an, an anomaly is the best way to put it.”

“That’s right,” Barbara added. “And while we aren't trying to pressure you or anything, you uh—”

“I guess what we’re trying to ask is exactly how long will you be staying?” Adam said.

The other adults seemed to wilt with relief.

“So the plan was to bribe me with food and then stage an impromptu interrogation?” Beetlejuice said, raising an eyebrow as he spooned spaghetti onto his plate.

“That’s not how I would've put it, but in a sense, yes,” Charles said.

“Love the honesty,” Beetlejuice said. “Alright, question time, keep 'em snappy, I don't have all night.”

Adam, stupid sexy adorable Adam had the absolute audacity to raise his hand.

“Yes?” Beetlejuice said, feeling a smirk stretch across his face.

“As I said before, how long—”

“No idea.”

“You must have some idea,” Charles said. “Has anything like this happened in the past?”

“Yes, actually, and that sitch went on for about six centuries. Six centuries too long, if you ask me. Right up until I met Lyds here.”

Beetlejuice held his hand up for a hi-five which Lydia returned seamlessly.

He didn't miss the shared frowns reflected by nearly everyone in the room.

“You really don't know?” Adam said, dejected.

“Ooh, face of disappointment right there,” Beetlejuice replied. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“No thank you.”

“Don't try and pretend like you don't miss my raw, sexual energy. Bald-faced lies make me horny. Do you or do you not remember the time we made out in front of your girlfriend whose name I already forgot?”

“Barbara is my wife.”

“Eh,” Beetlejuice waved his hand dismissively. “Potato potahto. No one stays together long after they're dead. Even if they are lucky enough to die simultaneously of non-murder-suicide related reasons.”

Charles coughed.

“I can't help but feel that this had gotten slightly...off track, wouldn't you say, Delia?”

“Of course, dear. Especially considering we’ve already established that no one in this household wants to have sex with you, Mr. Juice.”

“Except Adam, right? I'm telling you, man’s giving off _vibes_.”

“Excuse me, I am not going off ‘vibes,’ you clearly have issues when it comes to reading people.”

“He has issues, period,” Lydia snickered, and they high-fived once again.

“Yeah, Adam. Quit being so insensitive, would ya?” Beetlejuice said around a mouthful of spaghetti.

“That’s it,” Charles said. “We’re all adults here, it shouldn't be that hard to come up with some ground rules.”

⁂

That turned out to be a lie.

But in the end, after much deliberation, they—and by they, Beetlejuice menat everyone but him and Lydia because Lydia was a baby or whatever, and obviously, it wasn't like they were going to give him a say in this shit—had a list of rules and expectations and Beetlejuice was about ready to rip his hair out.

Rule number one being that Beetlejuice wasn't allowed to flirt with and-slash-or touch anyone without their express consent. And as much as Beetlejuice hated being cockblocked by a bunch of stuffy breathers, he reluctantly agreed.

The other rules followed, with shit like: ‘bathing is fucking necessary or we will not hesitate to hose you down in the backyard,’ and ‘please be normal, Beetlejuice. We’re literally begging you to be normal.’

And so on.

It was safe to say Beetlejuice hated the rules with a fucking vengeance.

By the time he’d made it through two plates of spaghetti and like, all of the meatballs, the self-proclaimed ‘adults of the house’ were still talking. Debating whether Beetlejuice should be added to the chore chart, which, eww. With Barbara and Adam insisting that he would cause more damage than good, and Charles and Delia stating that it would be ‘a learning experience’ whatever that meant. Beetlejuice was ready to set the house on fire and run off screaming into the night.

And actually, he had a few scare-related ideas he wanted to try out from the day before, when he’d stolen Lydia’s computer to watch porn but had ended up distracted by youtube and holy shit. First off, the newest generation of breathers were a bunch of weenies if they were scared of like, the Slenderman guy and shit, but it would make for a good scare if he—

“Beetlejuice,” Charles said, and Beetlejuice startled.

“Huh?” He said. “Oh, right. Uh, the chore chart thing is stupid. Last time I did a load of laundry, shit came out pink, and yeah, I know you aren't supposed to mix your darks and your lights but I didn't even own any pink clothing. And now half my wardrobe looks like I got it from the bargain bin at Claire's.”

“Ooookay,” Lydia said. “So is your mom coming back, or what?”

Beetlejuice shrugged, feeling the sticky, sick feeling return at the mention of his mother.

Did he think she was going to make a reappearance? No. Did he know for sure? No. Would she absolutely one-hundred percent obliterate him and flush his ashes down the toilet if she did end up coming back? Yes.

“His hair’s blue,” Charles said. “Why is his hair blue?”

“ _It means_ he’s—” Lydia started, and was cut off by Beetlejuice clamping a hand over her mouth.

She licked it, and Beetlejuice turned to glare at her. Aglare that she hopefully understood as ‘don't fucking use my own methods against me and also pretty please don't tell them about the mood ring hair because I’ll never hear the end of it’.

Surprisingly, Lydia nodded. Sending a look that roughly translated to ‘well why didn't you say something sooner, moron,’ and ‘i got you, dude, don't worry,’ and also: ‘never do that again or I will bite your fingers off like fleshy carrots.’

“It means,” Beetlejuice said, eyeing Charles. “That this is pointless. It’s like you guys forget I'm a demon. Is 'actual spawn of satan' not ringing any bells?”

“Yet another reason you don't belong here,” Charles said, staring at his spaghetti as if it had personally offended him.

“Barbara, Adam...others,” Beetlejuice said. “I literally want nothing more than to return to the netherworld. Unfortunately, someone is making that incredibly fucking difficult. Thanks, mom, by the way, if you’re listening. Great job on this one, I mean it. Not like you're a world-class bitch or anything.”

“But is she coming back?” Asked Adam, and Beetlejuice shrugged.

“She’s like a missing sock. Sure, maybe one day I’ll find her kicking around in the pocket dimension, but who knows?” he cringed at the thought. “I wouldn't count on it, though. Knowing her, even if she does come back, it won't be for a few hundred years.”

“That’s not the slightest bit comforting,” Charles said.

“Oh, sorry, you shoulda told me you wanted to lie to you,” Beetlejuice said, pitching his voice in a mocking approximation of Juno. _“Mother dearest will be back to collect me any minute now. In fact, is that her I hear pulling into the driveway, ready to collect her darling boy?”_

“Nope,” Beetlejuice said in his normal voice. “Guess it’s just the _STUPID GULLIBLE IDIOT BREATHERS_ who are making my un-life hell, no surprises there.”

“Beej—” Lydia started, only to be cut off by Charles.

“Would you please calm down, Mr. Beetlejuice? I know this is a difficult time for you but—”

“No fucking shit, sherlock. How long it take you to puzzle that one out?” He growled. The use of his name having been the final nail in the coffin, white-hot pain through his ribcage and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

“What?” Delia muttered, staring wide-eyed at her husband.

It was then Beetlejuice realized that at some point during the conversation, he’d gotten to his feet. Claws cutting into his palms, and all at once, he felt the fight go out of him. Beetlejuice dropped to his seat, uncurling his hands and playing with the hem of his shirt as he stared at the floor.

Beetlejuice felt his fangs digging into his bottom lip. Squirmy and anxious, he contemplated vanishing into thin air, but that would just create more questions and god, if there was one thing Beetlejuice hated it was questions. Like a pop quiz where every answer he gave was the wrong one until the room felt like it was caving in on him and Juno grabbed him ‘round the middle and squeezed so tight he felt like his ribs were going to snap.

Beetlejuice felt Lydia’s smaller hand grab his own.

“What did you think was going to happen if you guys kept pushing him? You do know he’s a person too, right?” Lydia said, voice shaking with anger. “Even if he only kind of looks it. You can't just demand he answer each and every one of your questions under threat of being kicked out if he answers wrong.”

“Lyds is on the money,” Beetlejuice replied. “And it was shitty of me to yell but I dunno what you people want me to tell you. It is so like my mom to be all vague and cryptic, plain old shitty writing if you ask me. Even if my evil mom makes a hell of a plot device.”

“And that’s fair,” Barbara said, ignoring the last bit. “We shouldn't have pressured you, I think we’re all a little bit overwhelmed by the, um, situation.”

“Yes,” Adam said. “And I’m sure we’ve gotten our point across, but if you do learn more, it’s only fair that you tell us.”

“So what? I'm just like, stuck here indefinitely? Chilling with breathers and newly deads who are basically breathers—no offense,” he said, looking at the Maitlands.

“None taken,” Adam replied.

“I don't see why we can't have another...person in the house,” Delia said. “As long as you refrain from setting anything on fire. Especially the couch in the living room, it’s a designer piece from the Autumn—”

“Aaaaand I don't care,” Beetlejuice said. “Now if that’s all—”

“Wait,” Charles said. “This is a big decision. We all need to agree if he’s to become a permanent fixture in our household.”

“What if we give it some time?” said Barbara. “Two weeks and if all goes well, he can stay. Sort of like a trial run.”

“Great idea, honey,” Adam said. And after both Charles and Delia voiced their agreement, the adults turned to look at Beetlejuice, who was privately horrified by their offer.

See, Beetlejuice knew he wasn't good with first impressions, but he was somehow even worse with second and third impressions.

Essentially, the longer he stuck around, the more they’d want him gone until they decided to take the matter into their own hands and actually do something about it. If they were polite, they’d let him down gently, pat him on the back, tell him ‘better luck next time’ as he went. If he was unlucky, it’d be an exorcism for the B-man. And those never went well, practically guaranteed he’d have to kill the lot of them if he wanted a chance at escape.

Not that he was going to say any of that aloud.

Instead, Beetlejuice nodded, pressed a clawed finger to the soft flesh of his palm, and cut as deep as he could. He waited, allowing the cut to fill with ectoplasm.

“So,” he said. “Where do I sign?”

He was met with horrified glances, a shocked gasp from Adam as they stared at him like he’d grown a second head, which, by the way, was a thing he could do.

“No blood pact?” Beetlejuice said, wiping his hand on his jeans. “You guys are super lame. Have you not heard the dangers of keeping a demon around without laying claim to its immortal soul? It’s like you _want_ eternal suffering to befall your bloodline.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Delia said, reaching for a steak knife.

Charles stopped her, setting the knife back on the counter before returning to the table.

“We’re willing to risk it, thanks,” he said, face screwed with disgust as Beetlejuice licked the rest of the ectoplasm off his palm. As always, it tasted like dirt, hot to the touch.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered. “Not my problem if your grandkids are born into a generations long curse. Makes for a great talk at the family reunion.”

And on that rather foreboding note, the tension in the room cleared.

The others had to be at least somewhat satisfied with the conclusion they had drawn. Hell, even Lydia was grinning at him like it was some mega-win.

“I told you they’d let you stay,” she said, grinning like she’d won the lottery.

In Beetlejuice’s opinion, it was all wishful thinking. He was and would always be a demon, a demon who, on top of being a literal born-dead hellspawn of a person? Thing? He didn't know. He was kinda-sorta incredibly fucked up on top of all that other shit.

And sure, maybe they thought that playing nice was the best way to get him feeling safe before they ripped off the bandaid and forced him to bend to their will.

Still, for the time being, it was alright. He didn't love the implications that one day, it would all come back to bite him in the ass. But for now, he was content to stay where he was, if not only for the promise of being seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayokayokay so i wrote this chapter over a month ago so i dont really have any chapter-specific comments other than, BEEJ IS SAD AND IM SAD AND HOLY SHIT. im like 80% sure i cried writing this i dunno. 
> 
> anyways, i got writers block soley because I watched sor and holy shit i love alex as dewey more than anything except obviously alex as beej!! now i wanna write an sor fic and its totally killing my vibe, fuck me i guess. im like, entirely hyperactive rn im basically a five-year old shhh its fine. point is, chapters will be slow post chapter 9. 
> 
> thank you for reading!! i love you guys more than anything except maybe food. please come talk to me on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) and we can vibe. also comments and kudos make me cry so y'know, do that too.


	9. Chapter 9

After what had to be in the top three most intense family dinners of her lifetime, Lydia bribed the demon up to her room with the promise of cookies and Netflix. 

Although slightly confused, Beetlejuice was happy enough to stack Oreos into a giant tower as they watched trailer after trailer. Of course, being a demon and all, he'd hardly seen any movies or TV shows, leaving her to choose the content.

Eventually, Lydia settled on Black Mirror. Setting her laptop on the floor in front of them and draping herself in a shitton of blankets as they watched.

It was odd, Lydia thought, that he could look so normal, so fucking normal after a shower and a change of clothes. Even his hair looked less intimidating. He was a lot softer and shorter than she’d realized. Taller than her, but that didn't mean much, everyone was taller than her. Still, he couldn't have been over five foot six.

In all honesty, Lydia wasn't sure how to feel about it.

Initially, she’d latched onto Beetlejuice because he was chaos personified. Almost untouchable. He was different now, more subdued, apprehensive and Lydia knew, she fucking knew it was because of his mom.

She just didn't know what she could do to fix it. In fact, Lydia didn't know if there was a fix, or if she wanted to risk setting him off, turn him back to the dangerously unstable, power-hungry douchebag of two months ago.

In short, Lydia had no fucking idea what to do.

With the show blaring in the background, settling over the room like a soft coat of static, she noted the soft snores emanating from the demon; asleep with his knees bunched to his chest.

And as Lydia was about to throw a blanket over his back, shut off her computer and start to prepare for bed, a knock sounded outside her door.

Her dad, she knew.

"Come in," she said, as quietly as she could.

Hinges squeaked as her dad entered the room, flooding the space with outside light. His eyes widened when they landed upon Beetlejuice, still fast asleep.

“Can we talk?” he asked, gesturing for her to follow him into the hall.

Lydia nodded, freeing herself from the many blankets and moving towards her father. She decided it was best to shut the door behind her, turning the lights off as she went.

“Is this about Beej?” She asked once they stood, rather awkwardly, in the brightly lit hallway.

“Is that what you’re calling him now?” he said. “He’s not a pet, Lydia, even if he does have an uncanny resemblance to a dead, bloated animal. You need to remember he’s—”

“He’s what?” Lydia said. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shot him a glare. “Not a real person so he doesn't deserve to be treated with basic respect, is that it?”

“No, no,” he dad said, backtracking. “What I'm saying is, you have to be careful, Lydia. And more importantly, you need to come straight to us if he does anything...suspicious. We don't know what his intentions may be and I'd hate to see anyone, you especially, get hurt.”

“Don't you get it?” Lydia said. “He’s not going to hurt me; he's my best friend. And sure, he hasn't always been great but he's trying, he's—”

“He certainly isn't of stable mind,” her dad replied. “Please don't fight me on this, all I'm asking is for you to keep an eye on him, is that really so bad?”

“You don't trust him."

“Do you?” He shot back, and Lydia blanched, dropping her head to stare rather pointedly at her feet.

“No,” she said, after a long stretch of silence. “But I want to. And I'm willing to give him a chance. Like when you were practically begging me to be nice to Delia; is this situation so different?”

“Yes,” her dad replied. “Very clearly yes.”

Lydia bit her lip to stop herself from screaming.

“He's a demon, Lydia,” he continued. “And I'm not saying it to be an ass, I'm saying it because it’s true. So please, keep an eye out. Let me know if he starts plotting our deaths.”

He cracked a grin at the last bit, trying for a joke, and Lydia had no choice but to grin weakly back.

She knew her father, knew he wasn't going to budge and it wasn't like Beetlejuice was going to do anything that warranted her sounding the alarm anyways, or if he was, she doubted he’d tell her about it.

“Fine,” she said. “I can do that if—and please, hear me out, okay?—if you quit looking at him like he’s going to spontaneously combust and take us all with him. Though, now that I think about it, that _would_ be sort of cool.”

Her dad winced.

“If you say so,” he said. “You know, every day you remind me more and more and of your mother.”

“Do I?” Lydia raised her eyebrows at that. Unsure as to whether he was being serious or simply trying to butter her up. She knew he wouldn't do that, not when it came to Dead Mom but—

“Would I say something like that if it wasn't true?” he asked.

“No,” Lydia said, shrugging. “I don't think you would, I just—”

“I miss her too,” her dad said, stepping forward and embracing her in an awkward hug.

The hug felt good, even if they didn't always agree on everything.

From inside the room came a loud snoring noise that Lydia was confident no human could make.

“I should probably wake him up, huh?” she said.

“You do that,” he dad replied, as Lydia turned and headed for the door.

“Love you, dad,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

⁂

A lot happened over the next week. Lydia’s return to school and the subsequent quasi-popularity that came with being suspended, for one. On the other, less-boring-and-more-unfortunate hand, was Beetlejuice.

At first, he’d spent the majority of his time under the watchful eye of the Maitlands, and Lydia with him, alternating between eating pages out of her textbooks and passing out on the couch in a demon-shaped lump.

After the first day, he’d regained his energy, and Lydia had no idea if drugs were involved, or if she’d spoken too soon about him having changed. He spent the week, from what she could tell anyway, finding increasingly creative ways to mess with the Maitlands.

On Monday, it was the kitchen sink pouring green slime for hours straight as a horde of spiders took up residence in the attic. When asked, Beetlejuice stated he was unaware as to the nature of the plumbing issue, that the spiders had nothing to do with him and must’ve been drawn to the Maitlands ‘ghostly presence.’ In other words, it was a fat load of crap.

Things worsened considerably once Beetlejuice grew bored with tormenting the Maitlands. After he’d possessed the laundry machine to quite literally eat their clothes, he dropped the antics. Leaving the guest room only for food and to hide under Lydia’s bed so he could talk to her in the middle of the night.

By the following Saturday, Beetlejuice had broken almost all their dishes. Smashing plates and on one occasion, a mirror, eaten almost all the food in the house (the rest was destroyed in an impromptu food fight), and set the carpet on fire a total of three times.

That didn't account for the rock music, which he blasted at all hours of the night.

At first, her dad had been adamantly against the music. But when he’d barged into the guest room, shouting loud enough to bring the house down as he threatened murder on the un-dead, he’d walked into the unfortunate sight of Beetlejuice having very, very kinky sex with at least three of his clones.

Lydia only knew about the last bit because he’d overheard her father telling Delia about it, and yes, he had gone into excruciating detail. In fact, Delia had almost seemed _interested_ and no, eww, disgusting, Lydia wanted to die at the thought. Especially the idea of Beej—just, hell no.

So the rock music stayed, and everyone, exhausted from the lack of sleep, grew increasingly on edge.

At this rate, Lydia wondered if Beetlejuice would even make it two weeks.

And on Saturday morning, marking the eighth day of Beetlejuice’s stay, Lydia sat at the island eating one of Delia’s dumb vegan salad thingies. It was inedible, hardly constituting as food, which was probably why it was one of the few things Beetlejuice had left behind in his consuming the entire fucking contents of the kitchen.

The Maitlands were in the attic, working on some new artsy-fartsy online painting course thingie. Delia was who-knows-where, and her dad had left half an hour ago, saying something about needing to go into the office for a few hours. And Beetlejuice, at least to Lydia’s knowledge, had yet to stir from the recesses of the guest room.

That left her alone, well and truly alone. Something hard to achieve when you live in a house with four, now five, other people. Especially with the chaos Beetlejuice had been causing as of late. In fact, Lydia was almost relieved to get a little peace and quiet.

Two seconds later, it became apparent that the universe had other plans.

Delia entered the kitchen followed by a sulking Beetlejuice. Hair a murky, muddy green, and since he’d showered, it tended to flop downwards, fluffing at the sides. Though at that moment, it had gone limp, drooping sadly over his forehead.

Beetlejuice’s hair, however, was the least of her worries.

He was shirtless, dressed in only a pair of ratty pajama pants. The shadows under his eyes were somehow darker than usual, and as a whole, he pretty much looked like a sack of shit.

What was even more disturbing were the deep scratches on his chest and shoulders, the bite marks on his wrists. And Lydia _knew_ it had to be from the clone sex, aka the most disgusting thing in the entire universe.

“Delia,” Lydia said, pointedly not staring at Beetlejuice's round, hairy stomach. “Why is my demon naked?”

“Darcy and I were doing butt stuff,” Beetlejuice said, running a hand through his tangle of hair. And shit did he ever sound terrible, his voice more torn up than usual.

“Beetlejuice!” Delia said, glaring.

He flinched, rubbed uncomfortably at his chest.

“Don't sweat it, D. I’ll keep your slutty, slutty secret," he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

Beetlejuice came to sit beside her. Slumping forwards and pressing his cheek up against the marble countertop, he made grabby hands in the direction of Lydia’s uneaten salad.

Sighing, Lydia pushed it in his direction.

“Delia—” she started. “I'm assuming the sex thing is a ruse so why…”

“Well, someone had to do something,” Delia said, stomping her foot as if to accentuate her point. “He’s been wearing the same clothes all week. He smells like that, that place.”

“The netherworld?” Lydia asked. And Delia wasn't wrong, per se. The netherworld did smell overwhelmingly of death, but Beetlejuice wasn’t that bad. His smell was more a combination of mold, ash, and sometimes sweat.

That day, it was definitely all three.

“I want Adam and Babs in _my_ netherworld,” Beetlejuice said, grinning around a bite of salad. A bite that ended with his features screwing in disgust. He opened his mouth and let it drop back into the bowl. “Sheesh, Lydia, didn’t know you were trying to poison me.”

“It's not that bad,” Lydia said, glancing at the half-chewed salad.

It most certainly was that bad, but she figured she’d made Delia cry enough time to last a lifetime, best to quit while you're ahead, she knew.

“Beetlejuice, sweetheart,” Delia said, steamrolling onwards. “I say this with love, please, please, please let me get you some new clothes. I’ve never seen anybody in such dire need of a wardrobe upgrade. Why don't I take you two to the mall?”

Lydia cringed, locking eyes with Beetlejuice, who, judging by the lazy set of his features as he chewed at his thumbnail, hadn't heard, or just plain-old didn't care.

“Lady,” he said before Lydia could take the chance to get into exactly why she hated malls. Spoiler alert: it was the teenagers. Teenagers who, nine out of ten times, looked at her like they wanted her dead. Not just dead. Decaying in swear runoff.

“—malls are too breather-y for my tastes,” Beetlejuice continued. “Can’t I mooch off Chuck? He doesn't mind.”

But Lydia already knew this was a battle Delia was not going to lose.

“I mind,” Delia replied. “And, in the kindest way possible, my fiance is not a small overweight man. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in clothes that fit?”

“By ‘clothes that fit’ do you mean literally anybody who’ll have me? Because yes, most definitely. Unfortunately, demon sex isn't as popular as it used to be, darn millennials and their dogs, amirite?”

Delia stomped on the demon's foot.

“Ow,” he whimpered. “What was that for? You set 'em up, I knock 'em down. I can't help it if you’re unintentionally hilarious.”

“Walked right into that one,” Lydia said. “But seriously, the mall sounds like shit. Can’t you order him clothes online? I don’t see why I have to subject myself to—”

She cut off when Delia gave her the mom glare. A look she’d been honing with varying degrees of success for the past month, and although Lydia had had her doubts, she had to admit that the woman had gotten it down pat.

“I will double ground you,” she said. “Just watch me.”

“Dad wouldn't—”

“ _Charles_ said I should be more assertive with you. That includes enforcing bonding time.”

“Yeah Lydia, bondage time,” Beetlejuice said.

“Why are you being so weird?” But Lydia was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

Or not, not the answer, but she’d seen enough moping from the demon to know something was off. It didn't help that his hair remained unequivocally blue. The crude jokes little more than a front for...for something. Lydia just wished he’d tell her what.

Like _that_ would ever happen. While Lydia and emotions were like oil and water, Beej and emotions were like gasoline and fire. Dangerously volatile as the best of times.

And so, instead of answering her question, Beetlejuice shrugged.

Delia, who saw the whole thing as a resounding success, motioned for Beetlejuice to follow her upstairs so she could find him a shirt, instructing Lydia to get dressed and meet them in the car.

Lydia sighed, nodded. She spent a minute or two imagining Delia getting run over by her own car—a Prius, for anyone asking—before she tossed the salad in the trash and made her way up the stairs.

Whatever came next would be eventful.

⁂

Half an hour later and Lydia was starting to think that bringing what might be the most ostentatious demon in the country to the mall was a mistake.

A small mistake, seeing how happy it made Beej, but a mistake nonetheless.

He seemed, well, he seemed genuinely excited by the idea of so many people in the same place. Doubly excited by the fact that every single one of them could see him too. At least twice, Lydia had to stop him from accosting random bystanders.

He was too loud and lacked any sort of sense of personal space. So it was safe to say that Lydia had to keep him on a close leash, hoping he wouldn't cause too much trouble and the trip would pass by without incident. Of course, there was always that secret part of her that wanted things to go awry, that part that wanted to watch her pet demon wreck anything and everything in sight.

But Delia trusted her, she knew that much. And when the woman had headed off in search of who-knows-what, stating that they’d meet up at the food court in an hour, she’d gripped Lydia’s shoulders tightly and informed her that if she messed this up, Charles would kill them both so please, please both of you be good.

Lydia had a feeling that like it or not, her father would have something to say about the trip, and she doubted it would be positive.

Seeing Beetlejuice happy was worth it, though.

And it might have had something to do with like, demon mechanics or some shit, maybe it was a thing he’d done consciously, but he even _looked_ more human. His hair stuffed under a beanie to hide its color-changing nature. Dressed in a hoodie and ill-fitting jeans.

It didn't stop there, though. His teeth no longer looked as sharp, and his eyes were a normal brown, with only a hint of their usual amber. He was less moldy since he’d showered, and if Lydia hadn't known him, she would've assumed he was just some slightly-scruffy maybe-homeless guy.

It was the weirdest thing Lydia had ever seen.

“Lyds,” Beetlejuice said, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her to a stop. “Lyds, there are breathers _everywhere_.”

He gestured to his surroundings as if to further his point, freezing when his eyes landed on a woman with blonde hair pushing a stroller. Inside sat a baby who couldn't have been more than a few months old.

“Whassat?” Beetlejuice said. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the baby, oblivious to the way the woman was now staring at him. “It’s like a large fleshy maggot—oh fuck, it sees me.”

He then tried to duck behind her, which was amusing for a number of reasons, mostly because he had at least six inches on her and was also a fully grown adult person hiding behind a teenager because a baby had looked at him.

The mother smiled awkwardly at them before carrying on.

“That,” Lydia said. “Is a baby.”

Beetlejuice was speechless, so Lydia grabbed his hand and towed him behind her like he too was a young, incompetent child. Which, now that she thought about it, was oddly fitting,

“Baby as in like, a small human person?” He said. “I didn't know they looked like _that_. Yuck. New plan: avoid human babies at all costs.”

“Beej—”

“Who do I hafta kill so I never see one of those things again in my un-life?”

“You’ve really never seen a baby before?” Lydia said as they carried on, passing a bookstore and then a shoe store and then—

“Did _you_ look like that?” Beetlejuice said. “Like, like a cross between a breather and Jabba the Hutt?”

Lydia already regretted showing him Star Wars.

“Yes,” Lydia said. “You probably did too, you know.”

“Did not,” Beetlejuice puffed out his chest. “I’ll have you know I've always looked this cool and sexy.”

“Really?” Lydia raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Beetlejuice said, glowering at the floor. “Didn't get the hang of looking like a person ‘till I was a little older. Before that, I was kinda just a tentacle-y blob.”

“Oh,” Lydia said, somehow not-at-all surprised by the new information.

“Yeah. Those were some good times, lemme tell you.”

Lydia snorted, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him in the direction of the hot topic. She hoped Beetlejuice could be normal for a few minutes as she tried on some clothes.

Once they entered the store, Beetlejuice went still, looking around with an air of begrudging interest.

Lydia watched his hand move in the direction of a sweater. Grabbing the arm, he brought it to his face and Lydia knew he was about to lick it, slapping his hand away just in time.

Beetlejuice glared at her, dejected, striped tongue vanishing back into his mouth.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

⁂

After about an hour of shopping, Beej, now weighed down by at least four shopping bags (Lydia had taken the liberty of making him carry her shit) announced he was starving. He whined that he hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch and everything hurts Lydia, I feel like I'm on my period, Lydia, I'm going to fucking die if I have to shop a moment longer, Lydia.

So she relented, and admittedly, she was also starving, plus, they had Delia to meet.

She’d taken to keeping a firm grip on his wrist at all times to stop him from getting into sticky situations. Steering him in the direction of the food court as he succeeded in making uncomfortable eye contact with every single person he passed.

“Breathers’ll kill ya, huh?” Beetlejuice said, annoyed with the less-than-stellar reception. “Why do they gotta be so goddamn rude? Newsflash assholes, if you decide you want people to be able to perceive you, maybe don't get all up in arms when someone acknowledges your existence.”

“You’re being creepy,” Lydia said, for what had to be the hundredth time.

“I'm a demon, Lydia, I'm supposed to be creepy,” Beetlejuice wailed.

“Good on you then. Just don't come crying to me when someone goes all ‘to catch a predator.’”

Beetlejuice raised both hands, flipping her off in a show of chipped black nail polish.

Lydia just about cried with relief when they reached the food court.

Beetlejuice brightened as the smell of french fries punctuated the air, flashing oddly-human teeth when he smiled, an expression that was much less out of place now that he looked almost normal.

After spending the morning attempting to help Beetlejuice pick out clothes—rather fruitlessly, considering that the two of them had the combined fashion sense of the costume department of a Tim Burton movie—it was safe to say the demon had little to no concept of what was Acceptable Clothing. The reason he now owned fishnets, a thong, and about five big bang theory t-shirts.

When Lydia had informed her that big bang theory was shit, and no one should be allowed to like it, he’d agreed wholeheartedly before shoplifting all five.

He was truly an idiot, and Lydia was about to tell him as much when she spotted a familiar group of teens.

“Beej,” she said, tightening her grip on his sleeve and praying the group had yet to spot her. “Beej, we should go.”

Beetlejuice raised his eyebrows, staring at her with obvious confusion.

“What? Why? We just got here and I'm starving,” he said.

“For fuck's sake,” she said. And Beetlejuice, picking up on her discomfort, started to follow her away from the food court. Though he glanced behind him every few seconds, clearly mourning the loss of disgustingly unhealthy but also delicious mall food.

Lydia couldn't say the same, focused on getting herself and Beej away from the kids that went to her school. And Lydia was one-hundred-and-twenty percent sure they'd been the ones who'd stuffed the rat in her backpack, made her life living hell with rumors over the last week.

So yeah, it was safe to say she was kind of booking it.

Until they spotted her.

“Lydia," a tall, curly-haired boy she vaguely recognized as Ethan from Spanish class called out, and the pack—all five of them—started to move in her direction.

“Lydia, dude,” the boy continued, turning to the others. “Can you believe it? She’s out of her natural habitat.”

Lydia glared at them, resigned to her fate. Beetlejuice, on the other hand, went from confused to angry to stupid angry, judging by the bright red tufts poking out the front of his borrowed beanie.

“You want me to kill ‘em, Lyds?” He asked, and a bloodstained switchblade appeared in his hand, seemingly from out of nowhere. “‘Cause I got a few moves if you want it done fancy. Or not.”

The switchblade disappeared.

“I could do it straight up if that’s more your style. String ‘em by their intestines and all that. Oh!” he said. “I also do animal transformation if you want to see a Disney-esque redemption arc. I'm telling ya, Scarecrow, we got a lot to work with.”

Lydia opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a girl, blue-eyed and curvy, and Lydia was half-sure her name was either Lola or Sarah.

“Aww, you really have no friends, do you?” Her eyes flicked to Beetlejuice. “Are you her brother or something?”

“Or something,” Beetlejuice replied, almost lazily.

“Oh, well I'm just asking because you and me both know that nobody would willingly hang out with the witch,” she said. “So what is it, then?”

“I bet he’s her boyfriend,” another kid snickered, and Lydia clenched her fists, cornered. She held Beetlejuice’s sleeve tighter in hopes that he would get the memo and teleport them the fuck out of there. Not that doing such a thing would improve her reputation as a witch. But that was a problem for another day.

“Ex-husband, actually,” Lydia said, somewhat weakly.

“He looks like a queer,” said Ethan, and Lydia didn't hesitate to kick him in the shin as hard as she could.

Which, as it happened, was decently hard, judging by his sharp intake of breath.

“Piss your pants,” Lydia said, kicking him again for added effect.

And she was so focused on wiping the stupid smirk of the son of a motherfucker’s face that she missed the wide, sharp-toothed grin Beetlejuice gave her.

“I can help with that,” he said, and Lydia only had a second to wonder what that meant before it became obvious.

“Holy shit,” Lola-or-Sarah muttered. “Holy shit he actually pissed himself.”

Beside her, Beetlejuice broke off into helpless cackles.

Lydia was tempted to join him. Instead, she shook her head.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” Ethan said, bright red with embarrassment. “Freak.”

Lydia was quite certain that he was going to kill her, her family too, while he was at it. Shaking with anger, anger that was directed almost entirely at Beetlejuice. And fuck, fuck, fuck, the kid was going to piss off a literal demon.

“Wait until Monday,” Ethan said, forcing himself into her personal space. Lydia tried not to cringe. “I can make your life hell, Deetz.”

“Ooh,” Beetlejuice said. “I'm so scared. What are you gonna do, piss on her leg?”

“Shut up, shut up, just shut up, gay pornstar wannabe.”

“Sweetheart, I'm a has-been. There’s a difference. And if you so much as even think about hurting Lydia, it’ll be a cremation or nothing for you, buddy.”

“C’mon,” Lola-or-Sarah said. “He’s a joke, let’s just go.”

“Fine,” Ethan said, huffing out a breath. “But don’t think this is over, I got friends who'll-”

Lydia turned on her heel and started walking out of the food court. Beetlejuice followed, trailing her. He walked backward, flipping them off as he went. Yelling something about how he was going to fuck their moms in hell and holy shit did he go into scary detail.

Once they were out of sight, Beetlejuice turned to her, mouth full of too many teeth.

Lydia punched him on the shoulder.

“Knock it off,” she said. “You heard him, didn't you? I'm dead come Monday. Might as well start writing my will this afternoon.”

“As much as I’d love that, and I would love that very much, don't you think we’ve got bigger fish to fry? Tell me, Lyds, how sliced and diced do you want ‘em? I take commissions.”

“Beej I—”

“Beheading? Nah, that’s too tame—oh! What about a good old fashioned drowning? I’ll do it real slow, let it sink in that there’s no way they’re—”

“God, you’re a psychopath, aren't you?” Lydia said, checking to make sure none of the passersby were listening. “We can't just _murder_ our problems.”

“Really? I didn't hear you saying that when you impaled me.”

“Oh, you do not get to bring that up!” Lydia snapped, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. He winced, and she realized, all at once that she was dangerously close to the spot she’d chosen to shove Bad Art through his chest.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I'm not mad, not at you, anyways. Those guys just really, really hate me. There’s a reason you’re pretty much my only friend.”

“I have to say, you aren't making me want to murder them less.”

“I know. And, as much as I wish you could, I don't think it would be a good idea for either of us. You’re reformed, remember?”

“Ehh, I'm only like, a month clean. That’s practically nothing.”

“Of drugs?”

“You wish. No, I meant cold-blooded murder.”

Lydia felt...sad. Not, not for whoever the hell Beetlejuice had killed, no way, seeing as that was none of her business, but more for herself. That she’d needed Beej to stand up for her, that Beej had stood up for her in the first place. Though he meant well, he wasn't exactly the hardest to make a mockery of, and really, the only thing that saved him from becoming a total and complete joke was his misplaced optimism and overconfidence, traits Lydia didn't share.

“Hey, kiddo,” Beetlejuice poked her shoulder, eying the Victoria’s Secret with far too much enthusiasm. “How 'bout we go in there? I've been meaning to get myself something nice.”

Lydia just shook her head.

⁂

“Lydia, hey, Lydia, wait up!”

They were standing in front of the jamba juice when Lydia heard someone call her name. She whirled around, pulling Beej with her, to see a girl. Long, strawberry blonde ponytail swinging as she ran towards them.

Once she reached them, she stopped, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. She looked as though she’d ran a four hundred meter sprint without a warmup.

“Jen,” Lydia said, only a little shocked. “Can I help you?”

Jen straightened back up. Taller than the both of them. And Lydia was only moderately weirded-out by the girl’s behavior, used to demons and ghosts and the occasional clone, this was nowhere near as far out of left field.

“Yeah, I'm just—” Jen cut off, staring wide-eyed at Beej. “So I was like, in the bathroom trying to fix my makeup because my friend showed me a picture of his dog and it made me cry—I'm embarrassing like that. Anyway, I get back and they’re totally freaked out. And I was like, ‘the fuck happened?’ and then they were like ‘nothing,’ but I was like, ‘okay, seriously though’ and then they told me that you and some homeless gay dude pulled some crazy magic bullshit and—”

“Woah, Woah, Woah, stop the presses,” Beetlejuice interrupted. “I'm pansexual. Gay people are boring. Also, remind me to tell them to go fuck themselves when I haunt their nightmares.”

“Who the hell is this guy?”

“Oh, he’s, uh…” Lydia, thought back to the changeroom incident. Clearly, Beetlejuice’s strange-and-unusual factor had made it so no one involved—other than Lydia, obviously—was able to recall what exactly had happened, and she was unsure what to say to avoid making the situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

“I'm her cousin,” Beetlejuice said.

“Distant cousin,” Lydia added. “Twice removed.”

“Make that thrice,” Beetlejuice said. “The name’s Lawrence, but you can call me BJ. Does not stand for ‘blow job,' though I'm told I give a good one.”

With that, he held his hand for a shake, Lydia slapped it down,

“She doesn't know where that’s been.”

“None of us do,” Beetlejuice stage-whispered.

“Alright,” Jen said, taking it—whatever it was—surprisingly well. “Can I call you Larry?”

Lydia snickered.

“Not unless you want me to turn your insides to outsides and wear your teeth ‘round my neck like a set of pearls,” Beetlejuice said, stomping down on Lydia’s foot.

“Eww,” Jen said, nudging Lydia’s shoulder. “I can see why you called him a demon.”

“Uhh, I am a demon?” Beetlejuice muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, aww, Lyds, you talk about me? All good things I hope.”

“Beej-” Lydia started, but Jen interrupted before she could finish.

“No way this guy’s a demon, he’s like an ugly teddy bear,” Jen said. Before Beetlejuice could move away, she reached over and violently squished his cheeks.

Beetlejuice looked absolutely murderous.

“Look, Scarecrow, I know chuckles the clown has a strict ‘no murder’ policy but I'm thinkin’ he could make an exception, right? I mean, she’s what? Thirty? Looks like she’s lived a long and happy life, the sooner the better, I figure.”

“I'm sixteen,” Jen said.

Beetlejuice blew a raspberry, “you don't look a day over eighty, sweetheart.”

“I love him!” Jen said brightly. “He’s so stupid but like, wise, you feel?”

“Not so sure about the ‘wise’ bit,” Lydia muttered. “Don't you have a gaggle to get back to?”

“Those losers? Nah. They’re all idiots anyway." Jen’s phone buzzed, and with an overexaggerated sigh, she pulled it out of her pocket. “Nevermind. Lola wants smoothies, I also want smoothies—you have weird hair.”

The last comment was aimed at Beetlejuice, who tugged his beanie down as far as it could go, practically over his eyebrows, bristling like a cat.

“I will bite off your thumbs and use them as eyeball skewers,” he replied.

“You do that,” Jen said, examining her nails. “Welp, I gotta go, nice meeting you, Lydia’s-third-cousin-twice-removed.”

“Bet your parents wish they didn't skimp on condoms,” Beetlejuice glowered.

Jen only smiled. She gripped Lydia's shoulders, and shit was this girl as bad as Beetlejuice when it came to personal space. Hygiene was another matter, and Lydia hated to admit it, but Jen actually smelt kind of nice, like, fruity and—

“Give me your phone,” Jen said. Already pulling Lydia’s phone from her purse, she held it up so Lydia could type in her password.

“What the fuck are you doing?’ Lydia asked, but Jen only gave her a stupid smirk, nose crinkling when she smiled.

“We’re friends, aren't we? Relax. If you have my number I’ll send you memes.”

Jen punched in her number, setting her contact as ‘future side hoe' before handing the device back to Lydia with a flourish.

“Sorry my friends are assholes,” she said. “We should hang out sometime, you can be my non-asshole friend.”

“Yeah?” Lydia said.

“‘Course,” Jen made the universal symbol for ‘call me’ before turning and walking off into the crowd. She wheeled around one last time. "Bye."

Lydia couldn't help but stare as the girl walked away. Intent on her legs and also her hair and also she smelled like strawberries and campfire and she kind of wanted to text Jen right now, just to see if she would respond.

But before she could reach into her purse to retrieve her phone for a second time, she felt a weight on her shoulder.

Beetlejuice, chin planted there, arm slung around her back.

“Oh em gee,” he sang loudly into her ear. _“Lyds and whats-her-name sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then—”_

“Would you shut up,” Lydia growled, smacking at his face. “I don't even like her, she’s an asshole like you wouldn't believe. Plus, she’s a girl, I’m not into girls.”

“Yeah, no, I know a lying liar when I see one,” Beetlejuice tapped his forehead. “Gaydar, remember? I can clock a lesbian from ten feet, easy. And you happen to be a lot closer than that.”

“The whole being dead thing must be screwing with your head,” Lydia said, as they made their way up the stairs and to the second floor. “Plus, you saw her, right? No way is she anything but straight.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Beetlejuice, panting as he was somewhat unused to stairs. He tried to hover beside her instead, but Lydia yanked him back to the ground.

“God, you are so obnoxious.”

Beetlejuice resumed hovering, hands behind his back.

“Name of the game, baby. Can I be the best man at your wedding? Never too soon to start planning. You breathers move quickly these days,” Beetlejuice wiped at an invisible tear. “Four years old and already pairing off. Don't forget to thank me a few years down the line when you're settling down with a bunch of kiddies. Hell, before you know it you’ll be—”

This time Lydia slapped him.

“Dead. I was going to say dead,” Beetlejuice said. “And everything will suck real fucking bad, so I say enjoy this shit while it lasts. Who cares if she’s a total meanie who like, tried to cut your hair off in a half-assed attempt to humiliate you in front of your peers; gives you something to tell the grandkids.”

“I don't think that was your point.”

Beetlejuice didn't reply. A bouquet of dead flowers appeared in his arms. As he broke off into a few lines of song, Lydia wondered who the hell she’d pissed off in one of her past lives to get stuck with a literal demon as her best friend.

“C’mon, Lyds,” he just-about sang. “You know you love it.”

“If you don't stop teasing me, I _will_ make you spend the rest of the afternoon trying on dresses.”

“I see no downside,” Beetlejuice said. “But y’know what would be even better.”

“What?”

“If we ran.”

“Why?”

Beetlejuice gestured to a red-haired figure that was moving in their direction at an incredible speed. Delia. And she did not look happy.

Lydia checked her phone, half an hour late to lunch, and holy shit, she’d never seen Delia so angry before.

“Good plan,” Lydia replied, as they booked it in the direction of Away From The Angry Stepmom.

The car ride home was uncomfortable, to say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, quick bit of bullshit right off the bat, robin, i know we agreed beej should wear a cowboy hat to hide his hair, but i wrote this beforehand and didnt feel like changing it, im sorry. also, i dont think lydia would allow him to wear such a thing in public. 
> 
> anyway, now that that's over with. i got...nothing. i didnt post for a week cause im a slacker who forgot all about my fic for like, a few days there, which is great, im great, its fine. as of today, im midway through chapter 15, so while i technically have more than enough content to post, ill be switching to weekly updates for the foreseeable future. im sorry guys, i tried, i really did.
> 
> also, i do try to reply to every comment, and ill be getting back on that ASAP. and by ASAP i mean whenever my disaster area of a brain decides it wants to be civil and scream at yall in the comments. so soon. probably soon.
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!! please drop me a comment or a kudos if you're feeling nice. or you can come visit me at my blog where i lurk at all hours of the day like the deadbeat i am (@iswearimnotahorsegirl). you guys r the fucking best!!


	10. Chapter 10

Things didn't change much. 

Beetlejuice was still all sad and weird, and really, Lydia had no idea what _that_ was all about. Thankfully, the moping was easy enough to ignore when the demon was stoned 24/7. In fact, he spent most of his time bothering the Maitlands, leaving her to try to guess at what was going on with him.

Still, Lydia had bigger things to worry about than an angsty demon anyway.

Jen, for one. Except it had less to do with Jen and more to do with Beetlejuice’s comment about Lydia being a lesbian. Something she’d never once considered, even though, well, was he wrong?

She didn't know.

If she was a lesbian, did that mean she was supposed to have a crush on Jen? Because Jen was fine, she was like, nice and stuff and she had good hair but it wasn't a thing. Not like in the movies where some bullshit stereotypical gay character says something about how’d they’d ‘always known.’ 

Lydia hadn't always known, she didn't even know now. All she had was a vague sense of confusion and the knowledge that there was no way she could tell anyone about this. Or, she could, maybe, but her pet demon was hardly known for giving good advice.

And anyway, it would be stupid to go up to her millennia-old BFFF and ask him how he'd known he was into dudes. That would be weird, right? Like, super weird. Besides, Beetlejuice didn't seem to have the best grasp of gender in the first place.

God, this was stupid, so stupid. She was being weird and overthinking for no reason. It was times like this that Lydia wished her Dead Mom were still around.

But her mom was very, very dead, and all she had was a not-living, not-breathing demon who she’d seen make out with Adam like, once. Plus all the times he’d stolen her laptop to watch porn and yeah, it was safe to say he was the most disgusting dude she’d ever met.

But he was far from straight. And that would have to do.

Lydia found him in her bedroom doodling either lude sex acts or random lines—he was a terrible artist—on her ceiling. She chucked what was left of the apple she’d been eating at him, snickering at his startled yelp.

“This is going to sound super weird, but hear me out, okay?” she said.

Beetlejuice came to hover beside her, clearly under the chemical influence of something—or not. She had no idea when it came to his moods.

“Ooo,” he said, punching her shoulder lightly. “You’re lookin’ pretty frowny, Lyds. Is Demetria dying?”

He grinned, wide and sharp and Lydia sighed, already regretting her decision. Why had she ever thought that asking a literal demon about crushes was a good idea?

“It’s NBD—ghost with the most, remember?” he continued. “I’ll make sure she stays here. Snug as a bug in a rug—unless that’s the problem. Good thing I know a thing or two about exorcisms! She won't be bothering you again if the B-man has something to say about it. All we gotta do is—”

“Could you maybe lay off on the coke? It’s four in the afternoon, you have no reason to be this bouncy.”

“If you’re going to go all ‘twelve-step program’ on me, I’ll take my amazing life advice elsewhere. I have lots of people who love hanging out with me. Yeah, they all think I'm totally cool and funny and smart and sure, maybe I'm a little bit uhh—what's the word?—oh yeah. Super fucking high.”

God-fucking-dammit.

Lydia moved to sit on the bed, cocooning herself in blankets so she didn't have to look at Beetlejuice, who was two seconds away from frothing at the mouth like a rabid chihuahua.

“Now tell me, kid, what ails you?” he said, settling down beside her like an overly large dog. “This is a judgment-free zone and I promise, cross my heart, hope to die, stick a dildo in my eye, that I will do my best to—”

“How did you know you were into guys?” Lydia said. “Or were like, gay and stuff? Because yesterday, when you called me a lesbian, you were sort of not wrong. And I have no idea what to do, because my dad’s like, totally into the whole traditional two-point-five kids and a dog thing, and the Maitlands are…”

“The dictionary definition of ‘clueless straight people’?" Beetlejuice shot her a wide, almost feral grin. "Yeah, it’s a real fucking shame. The only thing they’d be willing to get inside is one of those dumb white-person minivans that contribute to like, half of all climate change.”

“Well, yeah,” Lydia said. “But how did you know for sure that you were pan or bi or whatever?”

“It’s kind of a gross story,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I got reeeeally high and banged a male prostitute I found on Craigslist.”

“That’s it?”

“No. It’s very much not, but this is the PG twelve year old sanitized bullshit version, so don't push it. But trust me, the story’s a real doozy.”

Beetlejuice sighed, flopping backward off the bed, and scrubbing at his face.

“I dunno, maybe just wait for the gay fairy to stuff a rainbow sex toy under your pillow.”

He shut his eyes. And aside from the drugs, he seemed tired. His hair a muddy mixture of greens and greys and she wondered, not for the first time, what was bothering him.

Lydia had a feeling she knew the answer. It was his mother, obviously his mother, but how the hell could she even bring that up?

_“Oh, I'm sorry your mom subjected you to horrific child abuse that still goes on to this day. I'm sorry she hits you and belittles you and I know you think that being a demon makes it all fine but it’s not, Beej. Trust me on this one.”_

Yeah right. Like that wouldn't blow up in her face.

Instead, Lydia turned to him, kicked at his ankle.

“What's wrong with you? I thought you’d be all over this,” she said. “I'm surprised you haven't gone off on some weird tangent about lesbian sex that will end with my dad exorcising you from this good Christian household.”

“I thought he was Jewish.”

“Ehhh, not since mom died—you’re trying to distract me, aren't you? Seriously, Beej, you can tell me what’s bugging you.”

Beetlejuice groaned.

“Yeah, no thanks, I’m not the mushy type. Can we go back to talking about the gays? And fine, maybe I was the male prostitute on Craigslist.”

Lydia snorted. “Holy shit you’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

Beetlejuice frowned. For a moment he looked sad, like he was about to cry or break something. Instead, his face rearranged itself into a smirk and Lydia was left wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing.

“So you’re into girls, huh?” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Got anyone in mind?”

“I don't—I just—girls are really pretty? Like, their hair always looks super soft and they smell like…”

She trailed off.

“No, no one in particular. Not, not yet, anyway.”

Beetlejuice hummed, nodded, flapped his hands like he didn't know what to do with them.

“I get it, kid. Don't think I haven't noticed how great Barbra smells. All dumb and flowery and shit.”

Lydia wondered if he’d ever get over his stupid crush on the Maitlands. She wondered if—

“Hey, Beej,” she said, and he grunted in reply. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do, uh, you don't have to answer, okay? Not if you don't want to,” Lydia said. “But you’ve seemed _weird_ lately, so I figured I’d ask.” she paused, picked at the blanket to avoid eye contact with the demon. “You’re not still—you're not mad or anything, at me, for uh, for summoning you, and, you—you don't hate me, right?”

She hardly noticed the way she was biting her lip, bloody teeth and she dug her nails into her palms.

“No,” Beetlejuice said, sitting up and staring at her as if she’d gone insane. “Why would you—why would you even think that? Are we or are we not BFFFs? We got each others’ backs, remember?”

“Because—” she said. “I know you hate your mom. Like, you really, really hate her, and you’re not a huge fan of the netherworld either. After, uh, after you _left_ , you—if we’re supposed to have each others’ backs, then why the hell did you never come visit? Why did you—I saw you, Beej! You wanted to go back. I just, I can't figure out why.”

“Million dollar question right there,” Beetlejuice said, his voice taking on a flat, defeated lilt. Sarcasm, she thought, even if she wasn't usually amazing at picking it out. “Maybe it’s because I _died_ here? Or maybe, _maybe_ it’s because you guys hate having a demon around. Which is fine, I'm fine, don't even sweat it, I'm fan-fucking-tastic.”

Lydia found herself staring, wide-eyed, surprised by his outburst.

“Sorry,” he said, locking eyes with her as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry. I get so _angry_ sometimes. Now I see what Adam was saying about that dead therapist. I just—”

“You what?” she said, eying at his sad, blue fluff of hair.

“I’ll do whatever. If you want me to murder someone, I’ll murder them, I'll—I’ll—I’ll—”

“The hell are you talking about, Beej?” Lydia said. She was lost, and knowing Beetlejuice, she thought his problem would be something simple and straightforward. Something solvable.

Beetlejuice let out a muffled whine.

“Why are you being so _nice_ to me? All of you," he paused, his voice cracking. "Like, last night I passed out on the couch and Dorothea put a blanket on me and everything. And, and this morning, Adam made me scrambled eggs—I don't even need to eat! If anything, I should probably be eating _less_ so why—”

He cut off as something between a sob and a laugh escaped him. An incredulous sound that made Lydia positively want to _murder_ Juno.

“If this is some elaborate plan to get me to do your eternal bidding, I have to hand it to you, it’s totally working,” he said, more than a little choked up.

“No,” Lydia said, taken aback. “No, Beej, I promise you, none of us want you to 'do our bidding.' They’re being nice because they’re weird. This house is full of weird nice people; I was surprised too, at first, but I mean, it’s not so bad, is it? I’d rather this than a curb stomping.”

He looked at her, wide-eyed, fangs jutting out over his upper lip.

“You don't get it. You’re not, not supposed to—I'm a demon, Lydia. We hate that kind of stuff. Friendship and intimacy—pfft—that shit’s for losers who get boners during Hallmark movies.”

“Do you need a hug?” Lydia asked, somewhat tentatively. He liked hugs, she knew, and he certainly looked like he needed one. A blue-haired demon dressed in an ill-fitting T-shirt—her dad’s, she knew— and he looked normal and weird and wrong and sad.

Most of all, he looked sad.

Lydia moved off her bed, sat down on the floor beside Beetlejuice and pulled him into a hug. His chin rested on her shoulder, and his hair, much fluffier now, tickled her cheek.

He stiffened, arms staying at his sides.

“ _NO_ , no, I mean, don't—don't touch me.”

He was on his feet in an instant, shoving her backward as he tripped over himself in his efforts to get away from her. His hands held protectively over his chest and suddenly, suddenly she knew why—

Oh.

_Oh._

He was afraid. Afraid of her, afraid because she’d killed him, stabbed him right through the chest and—

Fuck.

“I'm sorry,” Lydia said, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough because she’d killed him. She’d killed him and then gone on to act as though nothing had happened. And he was super traumatized because no way was that a normal reaction to a hug unless the hug was coming from a creepy uncle or some shit.

Beetlejuice wasn't breathing right.

Which was to say he was breathing at all. He didn't breathe, not usually, he didn't have to, but there he was; quick, painful gulps of air as he stared at her like she was an axe murderer or some other variant of homicidal maniac.

It was all Lydia could do to stare numbly on as he exited her room faster than she’d ever seen him go anywhere.

What the fuck?

Lydia gazed across the room at what she’d taken to calling Dead Mom’s Box of Shit.

“We’re really in it now, mom,” she said, knees bunched to her chest as she tried to register what the fuck had happened.

And, if her mom had been there at that moment, Lydia was sure she’d have agreed.

⁂

She found him in the guest room, _his_ room. Though she hadn't been in there since he’d taken up residence.

It looked the way she expected it too, blankets and sheets in disarray, the floor covered in clothing and food wrappers. Hell, it even _smelt_ like him, which was just. Not good at all.

And then there was the demon, slumped against the wall, hands over his eyes as he hyperventilated.

“Beej?” she said, tentative. “Talk to me.”

Beetlejuice raised his head to glare at her, and Lydia saw that his nails had turned to claws. His fangs crooked and overlarge.

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it.

“I’m sorry I tried to—”

She paused, trailed off, unsure what to say. Beetlejuice’s hair had gone a sickly orange color.

“Did I stutter? I said fuck off.”

And shit, because his hair was bleaching itself red and he was making an odd growling sound, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Lydia felt bad, terrible, actually, just, really, really bad.

Against her better judgment, she stepped towards him.

Beetlejuice flinched. He was on his feet now, and Lydia tended to think he’d have had a hard time being intimidating; with his round face, his short, heavy stature, but he managed it, hair spiking like an irate cat.

“Time out,” she said. “Seriously, we need to talk about how uh, I killed you, and clearly, neither of us are over it.”

“I see Dagmar’s rubbing off on you with the headshrinker bullcrap,” he said. His arms crossed over his chest as his eyes flared a reddish-orange color. “What happened, kid? If I didn't know better, I’d think you’d gone soft. The Lydia I know would’ve stabbed me or punted me off a roof, ha, _talking_ , what’s that good for anyways?”

“Don’t even try.” Anger bubbled in her gut, he could be so goddamn insufferable sometimes. Was he that dense? “You said it yourself, you were going to _murder_ my dad. And, and what about when you tricked me into exorcising the Maitlands, huh? Are you saying I should’ve let you kill my family?”

Beetlejuice winced, his wide-eyed expression morphing into a glare.

“You breathers can hold a grudge, I’ll give you that. What’s so great about family? All they do is shit all over everything. You _abandoned_ me for your stupid dead mom.”

“Shut up,” Lydia said, quite sure she was crying. “You’re such an ass.”

“Now she gets it,” he replied, surprisingly unbothered for a guy who’d had some sort of panic attack not two minutes ago.

And the way he said it, all slick and smug, not a care in the world. Like, like he didn't even give a shit about anything he’d done, hurting her, hurting her _family_. Lydia would’ve at least thought he felt bad. Hell, she’d been sure he felt bad,

Maybe her dad was right. Maybe Lydia was looking for something that wasn't there. Something that would never be there because demons were just walking balls of ID held together with spite and magic.

“I hate you.”

Lydia regretted it a second after she’d said it. The way he recoiled as though he’d been slapped, face full of confusion followed by pain. His hair a swirl of blues and purples before solidifying into a stop-light red.

“That goes double for me,” he said. “I—I—I don't need any of this. Now get out of my room.”

“Maybe I won't," Lydia said, as her sadness and frustration solidified into anger. "Maybe I’ll stay right here and we can stare at each other until you apologize for being a complete and total _asshole_.”

“Well fuck you too.”

Lydia grabbed him by the slightly-sweaty collar of his shirt. She stepped forwards and screamed bloody murder in his face.

“I’m going,” she said, once he looked suitably disconcerted-slash-terrified.

And as she went, a sob escaped her chest, clawed its way up her throat. For a minute, she almost regretted what she’d said, the hurt, horrible look in his eyes and it was all her fault.

But no, no, she wasn't going to let him have this, not when he didn't fucking deserve it. The asshole had insulted her mom, belittled her, the Maitlands, her father too. She wasn't going to have it, not when he was living in their house and eating their food.

Fuck.

She sank down into her bed, shutting her eyes to block out the tears.

That was what you got for trying to be friends with a demon, she thought.

⁂

Lydia was mad at him. Stupid mad. Like, if Beetlejuice didn't know better, he’d have thought she was going to impale him all over again.

He hid in his room awhile after she left, going in and out of sleep, only to be dragged back to consciousness by nightmares involving his mom as a monster with too many teeth and mouths and eyes for him to count, barging into the Deetz’s house. With him covered in breather-blood, his stupid slicked-back hair and, and that suit, that fucking suit that made him look like a homeless clown.

Dreams that ended with Lydia dying and Beetlejuice screaming and hurting and bleeding and then he was five all over again, hiding from his mom.

Beetlejuice went downstairs when he heard the front door shut. He knew the Deetzs were out at some dumb work dinner thing. With the Maitlands holed up for a date night in the attic, it meant he had the house to himself.

Beetlejuice curled up on the couch, a pillow bunched to his chest. He shut his eyes as the TV blared its static nonsense, doing his best not to think about Lydia or Bad Art or how the TV reminded him of his old apartment.

He pulled his knees to his chest, which, yeah, bad idea because he was sweating and choking. He needed space, he needed air, he needed—

Fuck, fuck, what the fuck was wrong with him? Why’d he have to be such a fucking screwup all the time?

The nightmare came back to him in a flash of sudden, stark clarity, left him shaking like some kind of idiot. God, he was being pathetic, wasn't he? So goddamn pathetic. He was a demon, for christ’s sake, he didn't even know if demons _had_ dreams.

He certainly did.

But then again, when had he ever been normal?

It was fine, he told himself, _he_ was fine. If fine stood for fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. Or something. He wasn't sure what half those words meant. Nothing good.

Beetlejuice just. He felt all itchy and sick and terrible and fuck it, he wanted to make it stop. To strangle someone, wrap his arms around a windpipe until he felt the breath leave the poor sap's lungs. Then he’d feel better.

Way, totally better.

Beetlejuice was a fucking liar.

He settled for digging his claws into the soft flesh of his shoulders, shutting his eyes in a half-assed attempt to get himself to stop seeing it. His stupid fucking nightmare replaying like a busted film reel.

Over and over and he was an adult, a grown not-quite-person. He wasn't a child. He shouldn't be having nightmares like some kinda half-rate jerkwad in one of those dumb fucking action movies Lydia liked to show him. Especially when the nightmares were about his mommy and a fifteen-year-old breather.

Jesus fucking christ, talk about being a baby.

But, alright, okay, the thing was that breathers bled too much, too damn much, in his opinion. It was bad design, all the organs, so many organs, and what? Half of them were useless anyway. More than half. Disgusting flesh balloons inside a disgusting flesh sack but that didn't negate the fact it had _hurt_.

Hurt, hurt, hurt in this sickening, nauseous way.

Pain was fine. Pain was something he could do. Beetlejuice knew from experience that he could handle a fuck-ton of pain and keep on keeping on. So that wasn't the issue.

The issue was when he had dreams about dying twice over. The first time especially, the time with, with—fuck, fuck, fuck, he’d promised himself he wouldn't think it.

So there was that.

He felt...weird. Wrong. Like he’d vomit if his stomach worked right, and thank god the Deetzs were out because if they saw him like this, he knew they’d think he was about to go psycho; blow down the house like the goddamned big bad wolf.

The TV was loud in the background, too loud. The Deetz’s living room lit only by the flickering screen. And Beetlejuice, still half asleep, spread-eagled on the floor in a good imitation of a dead body.

Beetlejuice sat up. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, soaked with sweat, and so was the rest of him, dark against his shirt. His head hurt, his throat, stomach, chest. He moved slowly towards the kitchen, slumping down against the cool tile and wrapping his arms around himself as he tried not to be sick.

⁂

It was the worst one yet. Well, maybe not the worst one _ever_ , Beetlejuice would’ve been hard pressed to think of a worse ‘why the fuck is my body forgetting I dont have to breathe’ episode? Curse? Was he dying again? 

Beetlejuice already knew he’d make a gruesome corpse. 

He hyperventilated for a bit. Made the executive decision to move to the bathroom where he had a (much) lower chance of being discovered. Slumped against the wall facing the toilet and wondering if he was going to pass out like some sad, swoony victorian lady.

After what felt like hours of trying and failing to get his shit together, remind himself that he didn't need to fucking breathe, it dawned on Beetlejuice that there was someone shuffling around just outside the bathroom. Soft footsteps, and he bit his wrist to stop himself from making noise, that way, he wouldn't be found out. 

For a second, it was almost like he was a kid again, hiding from his mom and waiting, waiting for her to find him, because in his house, hide and seek was a game he always lost.

More footsteps. A knock at the door. A knock that started as a soft tap but grew more urgent when he didn't respond.

“BJ?”

Barbra.

“BJ, are you alright?”

Beetlejuice winced, fuck, fuck, fuck, this was bad, this was so, so bad. They were going to kick him out for this. And he could practically hear Juno’s voice in his ear, reminding him of how much of a screwup he was.

And fine, fine so he hadn't been the best houseguest. It made sense for them to want him gone. It was easier to sabotage the thing on purpose, rather than waiting like a stupid idiot for the other shoe to drop.

And still, somehow, she had caught him unawares.

When Beetlejuice, quite intent on not being able to catch his fucking breath, didn't answer, Barbra pushed open the door.

There were fewer situations more embarrassing than the one she walked in on. Actually, there were no situations as embarrassing as the one she walked in on. Beetlejuice, curled in a ball sobbing because he was pathetic like that.

“Oh,” Barbra said. And Beetlejuice couldn't see her, but he could imagine the look on her face all too well; disgusted with a side of ‘get out of my house right fucking now.’

“Oh, honey, did something happen? Is that why you’re…” she trailed off, clearly at a loss.

“M’fine,” Beetlejuice said, wiping at his mouth.

Beetlejuice pulled his hands through his hair, sinking his fingers into his scalp. Barbra, kind, sexy Barbra, made a grab for his wrists, holding them, surprisingly strong, in her hands. Her eyes were wide with concern and Beetlejuice hated, hated, hated that he was the one who’d made her feel that way. And he didn’t—it was so easy to fuck things up and he was—

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Barbra said. “You’re okay, yeah? We’re going to breathe, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Her hand came up to rub slow circles over his back, and fuck, he was all sweaty and gross and why was she touching him anyways? He knew what she thought of him, so why—

“Leave me alone,” Beetlejuice said, as an inhuman growling noise tore it’s way up his abused throat. “Leave me the _fuck_ alone or I'll—”

He was on his feet in an instant, bloody chainsaw in hand, which, where the fuck had that come from? But he was too amped to question the reliability of the pocket dimension. Instead, he shifted himself into something a little less-than-human. The world spun around him as he fought to maintain his shape.

“I don't think you’re going to hurt me. I think you’re—something happened and now you’re scared, and that’s understandable, but lashing out isn't going to fix anything,” Barbra said.

Beetlejuice didn't miss the way her voice shook.

She stepped forward, and Beetlejuice flinched, nearly tripping over the edge of the bathtub in his haste to get away from her. She pressed a hand against his chest to steady him, which was close, too close to—

_The sickening crunch of metal driven through flesh and Beetlejuice didn't know a lot about being human but he hadn't thought it would hurt quite this much. And now he was dying, and shit, dying hurt, it hurt so bad, and there was blood, too much blood, red, human blood. He was bleeding and angry so angry, but also sad? Sad like he couldn't believe and what the fuck was up with breather brain chemicals anyway?_

Beetlejuice ran.

Or, he didn't run as much as he shifted amorphous and hightailed out of the bathroom faster than he’d moved in his entire fucking life, slamming the door shut and holding it with his powers. No way was he about to let her out, not when she might want to talk about things, yeah, no thanks.

Next, Beetlejuice located Adam, predictable as he was, in the attic, probably wondering where the hell his wife had run off to. Beetlejuice shut him in too, flopping back on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

He needed to get out, he thought, because he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe and holy shit was it ever driving him nuts.

There was something wrong with him. There had to be something wrong with him because no way was this normal or fine or acceptable. All the yelling, and, and then he’d gone and freaked out at Barbara and she hated him. And he deserved it because he was gross, really gross. Or maybe she’d been trying to trick him all along, and that was why she’d tried to help him, why she’d—

It had happened before, breathers who, for all intents and purposes had played nice until.

Until.

Until they thought they could get whatever they wanted from. Until they hurt him or fucked him or had him kill a relative or some other inane shit. In the end, none of it mattered, not when he always went right back to where he’d started. Back to Juno and the Netherworld and holy shit did he never want to go back to that place.

But.

It wasn't like there was anywhere else for him to go, was there?

Fuck them. Fuck the Maitlands and the Deetzs and fucking Juno and her godawful holier-than-thou bullshit. They could all go fuck themselves and their fucking dogs for all he cared.

Beetlejuice was mad, mad, mad and he didn't have the slightest clue as to why. He just was. He smelt like fire and ash and he was half-sure his hair was smoking because it did that sometimes and, and—

A horrible crashing noise behind him as the liquor cabinet in the dining room exploded. Broken glass and wood and fuck, that was less-than-ideal, wasn't it?

He stood, shaking, unable to bring himself to care as the room around him dissolved into absolute chaos. As if the place had been hijacked by some unruly poltergeist with a penchant for destruction and ruin. Fuck, fuck, he was going to bring the house down if he stayed here any longer.

The chandelier swung wildly on its fixtures. Flinging light around the room as the carpet pulled itself out from underneath the coffee table, sending the white people ornament shit crashing to the floor. Pictures tore free from their frames and flitted through the air. Electricity sparked and crackled. Above him, the vacuum could be heard as it came to life in a whirr of sound.

Loud, too fucking loud. There was feedback too, from the television, wrought with static. The house phone ringing and ringing and ringing.

“Quit it,” he just about screamed, his voice hoarse from crying and screaming and oh yeah, his voice was screwed up anyway. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, would you cut it out already? Fucking contrived is what this is. You hear me? Everybody wants to see the demon have a breakdown. Makes them feel better about their worthless little lives, huh? Well, I’ll give them something to—”

Beetlejuice hadn't noticed the car pull into the driveway. Nor the Deetzs, chattering happily as they made their way up the front steps. Discussing inane crap like Lydia’s photography assignment, the house Charles’ was sure he was _this_ close to selling.

The lock jiggled, the doorknob turned. He heard them now, the soft murmur of their voices.

And if this had been a normal night, he would've bounced right up to Lydia and gone on a tangent about some bug he’d found in the backyard or—

“...Beetlejuice,” Lydia said, staring at him like, like for the first time she was really seeing him. Like he wasn't a person or even an undead derivative of one.

She looked at him the way she’d looked at Not-John after the thing had shifted into its true form. Wide-eyed and horrified, the kind of look Beetlejuice normally loved but not on her, never on her.

“The creature wrecked our house,” Charles said, somewhat numbly.

“What about—” Delia started, turning to her fiance. “Charles, where are the Maitlands?”

Charles seemed to shake himself out of his shock, striding forwards and grabbing Beetlejuice’s shoulders. Beetlejuice winced at the touch, the cuts he’d left stung sharply, his chest heaving as the man stared him up and down.

Beetlejuice tried for defiance, which was admittedly rather difficult when one is doing their best not to simultaneously vomit and turn the house into a rage-induced horror show.

“Tell me, what did you do to the Maitlands? Why would you…” Charles trailed off. “This is all my fault. I knew from the start what a terrible idea this would be. I should never have let him—”

That was when the chandelier exploded.

A thousand shards of glass, ricocheting in every direction. It was all Beetlejuice could do to shield the breathers from rainbow shrapnel.

From a young age, he’d been told demonic power ran on emotion, and since born-deads didn't really _do_ emotions, he’d always been lacking in the cool demonic power department. Of course, of-fucking-course, that night would be the night that everything changed.

Still, a little bit of control would be nice.

Delia screamed. Lydia, fists clenched to her sides, looked positively horrified, betrayed, a thousand other synonyms that boiled down to ‘I hate you get out of my fucking house or so help me god, come morning, they’ll have to peel you off the driveway, and that’s only if you’re lucky.’

Beetlejuice didn't wait for them to tell him. He didn't know if he couldn handle it if he had to hear the words from any of their mouths. He could practically feel himself bursting into flame so he—

He went. Somewhere, anywhere, and shit, shit, shit.

⁂

Thing was, there were a lot of trees in Connecticut, like, a disproportionate amount.

Beetlejuice didn't much like trees, not really, not when they blocked out the sky. The sky was, and would always be his favorite thing about the living world, nothing like the orangey-black conglomeration of smog he was used to.

Still, the nice thing about trees was that they caught fire easily. Which was especially useful if you were a demon with a major anger problem and an unsettled grudge or two.

And once the surrounding landscape was suitably charred, Beetlejuice, huffing and panting and sweating way too fucking much, lit a cigarette on the still-burning reminds of a bush and contemplated if it was worth going back.

Beetlejuice wouldn't stay or anything (he knew nobody wanted that), but it would be nice to go back just to like, tell Lydia he was sorry for being an entire asshole or whatever. More of an ass crater, really. And who the fuck talks like that to a kid? She was a kid, a fucking kid, and he’d—

Beetlejuice was starting to think he was a little bit sort of very much terrible at friends. Friendship. The whole shebang.

He felt bad, worse even, when he was faced with the stark realization that he was stuck in the living world (again) with nowhere to go (again).

But hey, at least Lydia had been kind enough to summon him. Great. Because technically he was still tied to her, tied to all of them. Probably until they died. Or, you know, he offed himself, which was the demonic equivalent of pressing a 'reset' button on a TV remote. Beetlejuice would know; and in all honesty, it was tempting. Especially after his weird bullshit freakout because apparently, he couldn't keep it together for ten freaking minutes so Lydia could tell him how gay she was.

Fuck.

Lydia was gay. That was like, a thing for breathers, right? And he’d been a dick about it, hadn't he? He was sure, half-sure more like, that he was supposed to congratulate her or something, give her some sappy speech and hug or two.

Well, Beetlejuice hadn't done any of that. Instead, he’d spazzed out about who-knew-what and told Lydia to fuck off. Way to go, Beetlejuice, deserved a friend of the year award for that one.

Hell, they were probably talking about him right now. He knew Charles had an exorcist on speed-dial. If Beetlejuice had anything to say about it, they wouldn't need one. He wasn't that dense, he knew when he wasn't wanted. He wanted to say sorry to Lydia, make sure the gays stayed winning and all that.

And he was going. Destination Deetz-Maitland household.

That was, until his cellphone rang.

Except, technology and Beetlejuice Did Not mix, so what he called a cellphone was a magicked corded phone without the chord part. Receiving calls from the netherworld head office and nowhere else.

For his job, usually.

The job he no longer had.

Beetlejuice stubbed out his cigarette, staring out at the forest around him as he pulled out the phone, held it to his ear.

“Lawrence?” Miss A’s voice came through the line, staticky as shit.

She was clearly in the midst of some sort of crisis. She sounded panicked. Not panicked like, ‘I tripped over my dog, knocked over a candle and set my house on fire and now my children are dead’ panicked, but like, ‘Juno will kill me if she knows I called you’ panicked.

“Wrong number,” he said, startled by the sound of his own voice, he sounded wrecked, like, absolutely shitty, fuck.

He coughed. Tried to clear his throat as if he’d somehow sound less like he’d sucked off the mother of all cigarettes, which, no way _that_ was ever happening.

“Oh thank god,” Miss A said, ignoring his previous statement. “You’re alright, aren't you, Lawrence?”

Beetlejuice shrugged, nodded, remembered she couldn't see her and sighed.

“Every day is a blessing,” he muttered. “Kidding, I’m kidding, it’s shit. Tell me, has my mom put up a dartboard with my face on it, or am I in the clear?”

“She couldn't give two shits about you,” Miss A replied, no-nonsense. And, in all honesty, Beetlejuice appreciated that, appreciated her, even if he had only known her a month. She was nice, took no bullshit.

“Mom hates me, yada yada yada. We talk about this any longer and I’ll be here all night. So tell me, Angel, Darling, Sweetheart—”

“Shut up and get on with it. If Juno finds me, you’ll be double dead and I’ll be out of a job.”

“Right you are. Reminds me how much I love our little talks. That was my line, by the way. If I'm remembering correctly, it was you who called me.”

Beetlejuice fumbled in his pocket. Phone in one hand, he manifested two others to light another cigarette. For some wrong, backward reason, the cancer-sticks made his abused throat feel marginally better.

“Boss lady’s sending a guide,” Miss A said, all matter-of-factly.

What? No, seriously, what?

“For me?” Beetlejuice was unable to keep the confusion out of his voice.

“Oh hell no. For that cute breather couple. The Maitlands, is it? This isn't even remotely under my jurisdiction, but I saw the names when Juno filed her request. Someone’s coming to pick them up tomorrow.”

Beetlejuice winced. No, no, fuck no. Thing was, if that happened, they’d all assume it was somehow his fault. And Lydia, Lydia loved the Maitlands like a second set of parents, hell if he knew why but she did.

Juno sending a guide was...not good. Downright terrible. And he knew, he fucking knew the Maitlands wouldn't survive the netherworld. The place was shit. 

He couldn't let that happen.

“And you’re telling me this why?” Beetlejuice said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Charles’ shirt, and now that he thought about it, he had to give it back, didn't he? If Charles even wanted it anymore, considering it smelt like demon and was stretched out in all the wrong places.

“I thought you should know. It would be very, very bad for you if you tried to run interference. So don't, please don't, lie low until this blows over.”

“Yeah, that’s, that’s not gonna happen. No can do. Who do I hafta kill to—”

“Please, Lawrence. I haven't got a clue as to what you did to piss her off, but I swear to god I’ve never seen her this angry before. You need to be careful.”

As if.

“Ugh, fine,” he lied. “Shouldn't be an issue considering they kicked me out.”

Another lie, this one closer to the truth.

“They—shit, I have no time for this right now, Juno’s coming to check on the recently deceased. Don't try to call me.”

“Sure, sure, ill—” Beetlejuice started, trailing off when the line went dead. And yep, yeah, that checked out.

Sometimes, Miss A was a total asshole.

“Fuck,” he shouted, slamming the phone to the ground and tagging a drag of his cigarette. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”

He had two options.

Option A, storm back into the house and kill that motherfucking guide. Wait for Juno to send another and another and it would be bad, okay? Bad plan. Especially considering the average demon was a hell of a lot stronger than him.

That left him with Option B.

The more logical of the two by a long shot. It was also far more unsavory.

It went something like this:

Beg mom to put him on as a guide for the Maitlands, convince the Maitlands to pass over willingly by befriending them, and giving them this super cool idealized far-from-correct impression of the netherworld. Then, when they decided they did, in fact, want to skip town and stay there instead, the Deetzs couldn't be mad at him because the choice was out of his hands. Apologize to Lydia and get super fucking high because he’d earned it.

Beetlejuice bent over, picked up his phone, magicked the thing so the call would go directly to—

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Finally, a click, shuffling at the end of the line.

“Mom?” Beetlejuice said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy am i terrified to post this. i was stuck on this chapter for The Longest time, and it was initially FAR darker but i decided that for the sake of everyone not getting hit over the head with my melodramatic bullshit, id tone it down a little, you feel? hopefully it was still an enjoyable read.
> 
> im like, 80% sure this chapter puts my fic over the 50k mark which, fuck yes!! ive never written anything this long in my life! not to be like, overly sappy or whatever but the it's legitimately stunning to me that people like my take on some dumbass demon guy from a musical based off of some janky cult classic movie that came out ages before i was born. so thank you!! i love all of you <3
> 
> thats it for now. see yall next time where things go from bad to (slightly) better! ALSO yall can come follow me on tumblr @iswearimnotahorsegirl. leave me a comment or a kudos if you want me to cry happy tears because im insanely sensitive!


	11. Chapter 11

Lydia was in shock. 

First the fight and then Beetlejuice had gone the extra mile and wrecked everything. It was a school night, goddamnit. She should be in bed reading up on northwestern cryptids, not helping her dad sweep bits of chandelier off of the floor, the table, the couch.

It had really gone everywhere.

Her dad was pissed, that much was obvious. Every few minutes he’d stop what he was doing to sigh loudly, mutter something under his breath about how he needed a drink before continuing to dust at the carpet.

Lydia winced as she cut herself on a particularly sharp bit of chandelier crystal, pressed her finger against her pant leg to stop the bleeding.

No one wanted to talk about the elephant in the room.

Hell, even Lydia wasn't sure she wanted to even think about it. She was angry and hurt and what the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck? How the hell had Beetlejuice gotten it in his brain that this, any of this, was alright?

“I’ll get his things from the guest room,” Delia said. “We can put them out on the curb in the morning.”

Lydia shook her head.

“Don't, please, I—what if he comes back?”

“Then Charles calls an exorcist, obviously. That—that man _ruined_ my interior decorating. I refuse to stand for it any longer. I want him gone.”

“Yes, honey, I'm sure we all do,” Charles shot a pointed glance at Lydia.

“What he did was so horrible, so ghastly, I can't even begin to imagine what would drive someone to act in such a way.”

“Aren't you a life coach?” Lydia muttered. “Isn't it like, your job to deal with problem cases? To relate to people?”

Delia eyed her with adult condescension. “People, yes. But he’s hardly a person is he?”

And that was Delia for you. Delia, who would change her mind at the drop of a hat. It had Lydia thinking that she’d yet to make up her mind on the demon until the—the _incident_. Hell, Lydia wasn't sure she'd ever seen the two of them hold a simple conversation.

“I think something upset him,” Barbara said from where she and Adam were attempting to reattach the table leg. She turned to Lydia. “Did anything happen between the two of you? I’m starting to think Adam was right about him needing a dead therapist.”

“He locked you in the downstairs bathroom for who knows how long,” Adam replied. “There’s no excuse for that.”

Barbara nodded.

“I'm not saying there is, but you didn't see him. If I didn't know any better, I would've thought he was having some sort of panic attack.”

Lydia winced. Earlier that day, she’d thought the same thing. And, sure, they were talking about Beetlejuice, so there was a chance it could've been an act or some weird demon thing, but Lydia wasn't sure if a person could fake something like that.

Still, she wasn't any less angry with him.

God, he was such an idiot. A big, fat, stupid idiot who ruined everything. It was clear he didn't care about Dead Mom or their friendship or—or anything but himself. Which was why he’d thrown a temper tantrum. No other reason.

But part of her—

She didn't actually believe that, did she?

He’d told her he had nightmares. So why couldn't he—

“He was crying. I didn't even know he could do that. Has he ever cried, Lydia? Have you seen him cry before?” Barbara asked. Her eyebrows were drawn with concern.

Lydia shrugged, she'd hardly been paying attention.

“He’s cried, yeah. He’s kind of a baby, honestly. I’ve never seen anybody lose it over the grinch before.”

“He what?” Adam said, not unkindly.

“Nevermind, it’s not important. And anyway, I don't think an exorcisms’ the best idea. Are you seriously willing to kill a guy after you’ve lived with him a week? He’s...weird, sure, but he’s—he’s more of a person now, you know?”

Adam gestured to the destroyed living room, the kitchen. The power had yet to come back on and if it didn't come back soon, her dad had already stated he’d have to call an electrician.

“Would a person do this?”

“I didn't say he was well-adjusted,” Lydia muttered. “If anything, he’s the exact opposite. But—”

She broke off to gnaw at her thumbnail, avoiding direct eye contact with the others.

“Something was bothering him," Lydia said. "Before—before we left for dinner, we had an epic fight. His fault, by the way. I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“What would he even have to be upset about?” her dad said. “He’s a demon, for god's sake.”

Lydia thought back to Beetlejuice, drooling and fiddling with his hands and looking altogether like he was going to come apart at the seams. _“Fuck off.”_ Red-haired, but he’d seemed sad. It was a stupid comparison to make, but he’d seemed like a kid, a confused kid who was a bit of an ass but he was—

Trying.

Beej was trying.

She thought. She hoped.

He probably hated her now.

“He was mad that I killed him. I had to, though, right?” Lydia said, ducking her head so she didn't have to face their reactions. “He’s convinced you guys hate him. What’s worse is that he’s not far off.”

“We don't hate him,” Barbara said, and to Lydia's surprise, she looked shocked by the insinuation. “He seems like a very intelligent man.”

Lydia snorted. “Yesterday, he asked me what an apple was. I don't know if ‘intelligent’ is a word you should be using.”

“But he is. He—he’s just _strange_ , that’s all.” Barbara said, backtracking when Delia gave her a look. She stood, dusting at her dress, used her powers to (rather shakily) move the table back into place.

“He was socialized differently. From what we've seen, he's hardly had a cookie-cutter childhood. It obviously affected his development. And he’s allowed to be upset that you killed him, Lydia, even if you did the right thing.”

“Reading up on parenting?” Lydia snarked, dropping the dustpan and flopping back onto the couch.

“I’ll have you know I took AP psych in high school,” Barbara said. “A few things must’ve stuck in my brain.”

Adam raised his eyebrows.

“You said he had a panic attack, didn't you? Well, maybe this was all—all a misunderstanding. Maybe he didn't mean to—”

“You’re being too soft on him,” Charles cut in. “He’s been around much longer than any of us. He should be able to control himself. And anyway, I find it hard to believe he ‘accidentally’ wrecked our house, all the hard work Delia put in, gone.”

“Well, what if—” Lydia started.

“This isn't an argument, Lydia,” her dad replied. “And it’s time you went to bed anyway. Do I need to remind you you have school tomorrow? The adults will continue the conversation.”

“Great,” Lydia said flatly. “Just great. Because I'm totally going to go sit in my room and let you discuss how you’re going to kill my pet demon.”

“He’s not your pet,” her dad said. “That man...creature, is the farthest thing from a pet.”

“I had a cat like that once,” Delia added. “And if that experience taught me anything it’s that you should never open your home to strays because what you think is a cat will turn out to be a baby mountain lion," she shuddered. "Trust me when I say big cats are very hard to rehome.”

“As intriguing as that story sounds, and you _will_ be telling me another time,” Charles said. “He’s not a baby mountain lion, he’s a grown adult demon who will—”

“Please,” Lydia said. All at once, she realized that as many issues as they had to work through, she didn't want the demon gone. Friends fight, after all, even if she hadn't had many (if any), she knew that much. “Please don't kick him out. Sure, he’s lonely and attention-seeking and more than a little ADD, but he’s my friend. And friends don't fuck each other over.”

“Language,” Charles said. “And he is hardly your friend.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a grown adult man living out of our guest room and you’re a fifteen-year-old girl. I don't see how that could be a healthy friendship.”

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest, glared at her dad.

“He’s not a man.”

“You’re right, he’s not, he’s a demon. A demon who, who has you _bamboozled_.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, he’s just—he’s a person, okay? But he’s not a man.”

“Lydia, honey, I've seen him with his pants off,” Barbara added unhelpfully. She came over and pulled Lydia into a hug. “I can assure you that he’s a man.”

There was a moment of silence as everybody grimaced at the thought.

“He’s not, though,” Lydia shook herself free from Barbara’s embrace. “You guys don't know anything about him. You didn't even try, and now he’s gone and it’s all my fault.”

“Okay,” Barbara said, carding her hand through Lydia’s hair. “Tell us what you mean then, and I promise you we’ll do our best to listen.”

“No,” Lydia said. “You could’ve asked him. Any of you. You could’ve talked about him like he was a—a human being. And I get it, okay? He’s horrible and he smells and he has the worst sense of humor, but he…”

Lydia trailed off.

“I should go to bed.”

“Lydia. Lydia, wait,” her dad grabbed her arm as she headed towards the stairs. He narrowly avoided bits of glass and wood and what looked like the neon ceramic from her third-grade pottery project.

Lydia shook herself free.

“Wake me up if he comes back.”

Her dad shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck as he watched her go.

⁂

Beetlejuice wondered if he was going to throw up.

“What do you want, Lawrence?”

Juno didn't sound angry. Not mad or frustrated or disappointed. She sounded flat. Like she didn't care. Like he was some stupid pesky insect that she wished would leave her alone.

 _You and me both, mom_ , he thought, clutching the phone in shaking hands.

Beetlejuice checked, yet again, to make sure the clearing was empty. And it was. Nothing in sight but trees and charred, ruined dirt. No birds or insects or anything either; animals, especially cats, tended to steer clear of him.

“A sex doll, mostly.”

“Don't be crude. I already know what this is about, and you're sorely mistaken if you think there’s anything you can do to change my mind.”

“Oh I know,” Beetlejuice said. “Great plan, by the way. Sending some other guides to collect my two favorite ghosties. Why don't you spare yourself the hassle and—”

She was going to hang up, he thought. She was going to hang up, call him worthless a few times for good measure before sending him on his way. And then he would what? Go back to the house and try to scare off some guide, which wouldn't work anyway, and just like that, no more Maitlands.

And so Beetlejuice made his decision.

“Fuck, fuck, I, uh, I screwed up. And you were right. About a lot. Everything. I was stupid, thinking they could—I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. And if you’ll let me, I want a chance to make it up to you.”

The words tasted bitter on his mouth. He was a bad, no, a terrible liar, but he figured (or hoped) that if he said exactly what she wanted to hear, she’d buy it. Judging by the immense number of true crime shows he’d watched with Lydia, psychopaths were like that.

“How so?” Juno asked.

Beetlejuice could picture her, sitting at her desk, phone held to her ear as she examined her overlong nails. Bored, she was bored with all of it, with him most of all. Any second now she’d hang up the phone and the line would go dead.

“Let me guide the Maitlands. Two for one deal, free of charge. Benefits include you not having to send some other schmuck up here to do my job for me,” he said, and immediately regretted it.

“I will not have that _tone_ ,” she said. “I don't know where you picked it up, but you talk like a mid-century trucker.”

“I—what?”

“There it is again. Tell me you don't still have that godawful stammer,” Juno remarked, leaving no room for him to answer. “But that’s not important, is it? I'm a busy woman and I don't need you of all people barging in and _interrupting_. If you really cared to apologize, you would at least have the decency to be sincere about it.”

Beetlejuice contemplated the risks and benefits of bashing his head against a tree until he went unconscious or died. Everyone knew demons who tried to off themselves were sent back for processing, which was not a thing he wanted to go through.

“Alright, alright, I'm sorry, okay?" Beetlejuice said, failing to keep his desperation out of his tone. "Is that good enough for you?”

“It's not. In fact, I have half a mind to end this call before you embarrass yourself further.”

“ _DONT_ —I mean, look—I was wrong, you were right, and it was stupid of me not to listen to you. I don't know what I was thinking, really. I—I—I’m sorry. I put you through a hell of a lot of trouble over the years, but I can help now. I know these ghosts, calling them sticky would be an understatement. And—”

“Please, I don't want to hear any more about your lube analogy.”

“Not where that was going, but okay, fair enough. Just, give me a chance, yeah? And if I fuck up, you can do whatever you want.”

A pause, she was thinking it over. And maybe she’d bought it, the web of half-truths and pleas he’d spun.

As the silence stretched on, Beetlejuice was unable to help himself.

“Whaddya say, mom?”

Juno sighed, long and loud.

“I don't care. You want to guide them? Fine. My superiors surely wouldn't complain.”

He was the best in the business.

“Just do it fast. And I don't want to hear from you again. Ever.”

“If I, uh,” Beetlejuice started. “If I do this, can I have my job back?”

She snorted.

“Oh, I don't think you have a snowball's chance in hell of pulling this off. What I think is that you’ve got a hard-on for those numbskulls and when you fuck up, my superiors will see how much of a...liability you are and allow me to _remove_ you once and for all. Hell, manage this and you can come back to the netherworld for all I care, seeing as it’ll never happen.”

“Right. I’ll do my best then.”

“I'm sure you will, Lawrence, I'm sure you will.”

Beetlejuice dropped the phone, stomping on it as hard as he could until he’d crushed the thing into pieces. Fucking mom, that fucking bitch, and oh god, he had to go back to that house and apologize and somehow, somehow convince the stupid sexy Maitlands to go to the netherworld.

Part of him, some deep down part of him, knew that it was his mom’s way of getting back at him. A final ‘fuck you. She was right, if he messed this up, there’d be serious consequences. Especially considering that it was technically illegal to have any sort of contact with breathers, much less live with them.

He had to—okay—he could do this. Guide some Maitlands, apologize to Lydia, and bam! He’d be back in the Netherworld in no time.

No time at all.

And fuck, there was no way he could do this, was there?

⁂

The house was dark when Beetlejuice got back. Quiet, empty. Like they’d gone to bed and forgotten about him. Goodbye and good riddance was probably what they were thinking. Thank god we never have to see that demon again.

He almost felt sorry for them.

Not _that_ sorry for them, though.

He stepped up onto the porch and used his magic to turn the lock, pushing open the door without even the slightest of creaks.

He was home free to pass out on the couch, try and fail to deal with this bullshit in the morning when everyone was awake and in better spirits, no pun intended.

That was when he heard a creak on the stairs.

Beetlejuice blinked hard as the lights flickered on, feeling his pupils narrow into tiny slits.

He was met with the sudden mental image of a kid returning home from a party, drunk as all fuck, to find his parents there waiting for him, all mad and stuff. Except Beetlejuice was less of a sixteen-year-old boy and more of perpetually-in-his-mid-to-late-thirties demon who had the general demeanor of a coke-addicted hyena.

Anyway, there was Charles, still in his work getup. His suit jacket was missing, Beetlejuice noted, and his tie was slung around his shoulders.

Beetlejuice's stupid, death-addled brain wondered if Charles was going to hit him. Roll up his sleeves and get him right in the kisser.

It wasn't as if Beetlejuice didn't deserve it.

“You smell like smoke,” Charles said.

Beetlejuice shrugged.

“I’d tell you I've been tryin’ to quit if ‘no lying’ wasn't on the house rules.”

“Come with me,” Charles said. “I don't want to wake Lydia.”

“You and me both,” Beetlejuice mumbled, following Charles through the kitchen and into a room that Lydia had stated was the man’s office. She'd immediately informed him that he was not, under any circumstances, allowed to enter if he didn't want to be on the receiving end of an hour-long lecture about workplace privacy.

The room was, well, it was smaller than Beetlejuice had expected. Meaning smaller than his mother’s office, as it was really the only other office he’d been in.

Or at least it was the only one that stuck out in his mind.

There was a large desk pushed up against one wall, covered in tied stacks of paper. A laptop resided in the center, hooked up to some other machine that Beetlejuice recognized as a printer.

“Take a seat,” Charles said.

There was only one chair. A plush, rolling office chair.

Beetlejuice sat, swiveled the thing back and forth as he eyed the other man.

Charles was taller, far more intimidating than him, tall and broad, dark-haired. Bulky without being chubby, which wasn't fair. Not fair at all because Beetlejuice didn't so much mind being like, big or whatever, he did, however, hate the stupid baby face and the softness that came along with it. He was a literal demon, for fucks’ sake, he wasn't supposed to be soft.

Charles glared in Beetlejuice’s direction, Beetlejuice who was doing his best to pull his thoughts in line and out of the twisted hellish spiral they’d fallen into.

They hated him, they hated him, they really fucking hated him. But he already knew that so why was he—

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Yeah,” Beetlejuice said, his voice just above a rasp.

“It was uncool? No, it was uh, bad, no? Closer, though, right? Downright terrible? That’s the one,” Beetlejuice said, rubbing at his throat.

“It was _downright terrible_ of me to—there’s going to be a lot, so just, hold the outraged comments ‘till I'm done. Fuck, okay, I'm sorry for trashing your house, for uh, eating Dolores’ crystals...and her vibrator, and like, some kinda spiky plant thing? That one hurt real bad.”

Beetlejuice got the sudden sense of ‘oh shit, you are so totally fucking this up right now.' Charles was clearly unimpressed.

“Do you know how much damage you caused?” Charles asked. “How expensive some of those crystals were? Granted, they only cost that much because the lady who sold them to Delia turned out to be a scammer, but still, your behavior was unacceptable.”

He glared at Beetlejuice.

Beetlejuice glared at his feet.

“Sorry,” he muttered. What the hell did Charles want from him anyway? It wasn't like the man was going to let him stay, especially with the way Beetlejuice had fucked up. And god-slash-satan was it only going to make the situation with the Maitlands _more_ difficult. Why did he have to be such an idiot all the time? He should've taken off while he had the chance. Hightailed it to fucking New Mexico.

“Is there anything else?” Charles prompted.

Beetlejuice sat on his hands to stop himself from gnawing at his fingernails.

“Is this about the thing with the neighbor's cat? The one that belongs to the old lady down the street? Bit of a Baba Yaga vibe? ‘Cause I was kinda hoping you wouldn't ask about that...”

“No—you—” Charles bit out. “Beetlejuice, what about the Maitlands?”

Beetlejuice winced at the tug in his gut. It was safe to say hearing his name made him want to puke.

“Right,” Beetlejuice mumbled, wrapping his arms over his stomach and hoping it would somehow ease his discomfort. “I didn't hurt them, though. Just freaked ‘em out a little bit, which is like, a regular Tuesday for me so…”

Charles looked at him like he was an imbecile.

“It doesn't matter. I want to hear you say you’re sorry.”

“You know, in a different context, that could be sexy. Very sexy. I’m attracted to you right now. Holy shit, this is like every lifetime movie slash trashy imagine article ever, help! I’m a thirty-year-old dude with the hots for my best friend’s dad.”

“I’d like to remind you that Delia and I are happily monogamous.”

“Well, fuck me with a dictionary because I have no idea what that means.”

Charles stared, Beetlejuice stared back. The man was going to hit him, wasn't he? Pepper spray him for good measure and call some halfwitted exorcist who was gimmicky as all hell, and Beetlejuice would have yet another body to deal with.

“I’m not good at emotions,” Charles said. “But Barbara said something that suggested you may be struggling. And as much as part of me wants to pack up our belongings and move across the country—”

Beetlejuice held up a hand

“Wouldn’t be the first time. I’d find you. Y'all summoned me, means we're like, bonded. If we practiced, you could probably read my mind. I think. Not that you would want to, I'm just saying you could. Theoretically.”

Charles ignored him.

Beetlejuice realized he was flapping his hands like a six-year-old; something Juno hated with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. He was so busy doing his best to stop—pressing his thumbnail into the soft flesh of his inner arm—that he hardly noticed when Charles began speaking.

“When I was sixteen, my parents kicked my brother out of the house,” he said, and oh shit, this was going to be serious. “So I understand, to an extent, anyway, what you’re going through. But I need you to promise me you won't do anything like this ever again.”

“Not like I'm looking for a repeat performance.”

“I didn’t say you were. Babara said you had...a panic attack. Is that true?”

“A what?”

“You know what? Nevermind. Delia can handle that one.”

Beetlejuice could hardly believe his luck.

“So I can stay?”

“If you apologize to the Maitlands and my fiancee, as well as sort out whatever went on between you and Lydia, I don't see why not,” he said. “But if this happens again, I won’t hesitate to contact an exorcist, are we clear?”

Beetlejuice nodded. “Crystal.”

That was when Charles went in for an awkward handshake, which just, again with the touching. Fuck. Beetlejuice's hand was sweaty and gross and he hoped it was at least a somewhat unnerving experience.

If he kept living with these assholes, he was going to lose all his credibility.

⁂

Later, long after the house had gone silent, lights flicking off one by one, Beetlejuice sat in the guest bed, blankets pulled around himself. He was armed with the knowledge that whatever he did, the breathers (probably) weren't going to kick him out, which made him feel guilty all over again.

He eyed at the adjacent wall. Half-convinced it was going to crack open to reveal Juno, angrier than she’d ever seen him. She’d sink her claws into his arms and tell him how he’d ruined her, ruined everything, and now he was going to pay.

All he got was silence.

He knew that if he fucked up, there were going to be consequences a hell of a lot worse than eternal banishment. Especially if he pissed off someone as powerful as Juno, or worse, her superiors. Beetlejuice knew of her superiors, though he’d never seen them. To him, they were the faceless, nameless beings that had sometimes stopped by the house when he was a child.

Juno had always kept him away from them, and so, even in his impossibly long existence, Beetlejuice had never come into direct contact with them. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

And as he sat, absentmindedly scratching at his arms, Beetlejuice wondered what was going to happen to him.

Even if he somehow managed to get the Maitlands to the Netherworld, the prospect of returning didn't seem quite as appealing after a week of breather shit.

And that brought him to his next issue, why the hell hadn't they kicked him out? They’d had the perfect opportunity and they’d blown it, even Charles hadn’t had the heart to get rid of him.

Was Beetlejuice that pathetic? That they’d started to feel _bad_ for him?

God-slash-satan, he hoped not.

That would be, well, resoundingly awkward, for one, he was a grown adult inhuman creature, he didn't need—

Need was one thing but maybe he—

No, he didn't want it either, but shit, that was pretty much a flat out lie, wasn't it? Truth was, he’d actually begun to...like?

Not quite.

He was beginning to _tolerate_ the warm fuzzy breathers and Lydia, but he was already sold on her, thank you very much. Lydia was fucking awesome and by all means, their friendship never should’ve worked but it did, even if they were sort of going through a rough patch. Beetlejuice didn't know what he would do if some stuffy overpowered Netherworld _superior_ came calling.

Run, probably, would be his best bet. Everyone knew Beetlejuice and authority mixed just as well as oil and water.

Goddammit.

He settled for pulling the blankets and pillows off the bed, gathering them in the corner where he curled up into an anatomically-impossible ball.

His brain was rotted, why in the fuck was he having so many fucking _thoughts_? Awfully inconvenient if he said so himself.

And as he drifted off to sleep, his mind emptied save for one thing: the Maitlands better be open to one hell of a move.

If not, Juno would kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hi hello, thanks for reading!! Extra special thanks to Robin for coming thro and saving my plot problem-y ass. I owe you my life.
> 
> i dont have a ton to say about this chapter, just, y'know, here is is. come chat with me on tumblr @iswearimnotahorsegirl. comments and kudos r greatly appreciated! <3


	12. Chapter 12

Seven-thirty in the morning and Lydia felt sick. 

A cursory glance at her alarm clock found that it had been roughly three hours since she'd drifted off earlier. She'd spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, listening for even the slightest sound that might've indicated the return of Beetlejuice. If she hadn't missed enough school that she was behind in all her classes, Lydia would’ve feigned ill.

Her dad would let her. He'd tell the school that she had some twenty-four-hour bug or anything really, besides the truth.

Lydia had a sneaking suspicion that ‘my pet demon destroyed the house and ran off into civilization where he will most likely cause significant property damage’ wouldn’t fly with the administrative assistant.

Feeling like a sulky five-year-old, Lydia shoved her (unfinished) homework into her backpack, crumpling her notebook in the process. She pulled it free with a sigh, smoothing out the now-wrinkled pages.

She slammed the notebook shut when she saw that Beetlejuice had doodled himself—little more than a green-haired scribble—and her—an angry-looking blob—beside him.

It was fine, Lydia reasoned, as she crammed the notebook under her bed, she didn't need it anyway. She fought to ignore the pang of regret she felt when she thought back to the previous night.

Once her bag was packed, Lydia discovered, much to her chagrin, that she’d forgotten to do laundry over the weekend. Forcing her to either wear something that had long been crumpled on her floor or settle for something from her pre-Dead Mom selection of outfits. Neither option was promising.

In the end, she settled on a sweatshirt from the ninth grade and a pair of ripped jeans. Hardly pausing to run a brush through her mess of hair, she stepped out into the hallway.

On her way downstairs, Lydia found herself eyeing the door to the guest room, found it ajar.

Bad idea. She was supposed to go downstairs and eat a bowl of sugary cereal and maybe see if Delia would give her a ride to school so she wouldn't have to bike in the rain. Unintentional sadness over an evil demon would have to wait.

Who was she kidding?

He was gone, right? No harm if she looked.

Even if she hated him now (sort of), Lydia still cared about him. He was her best friend, for god’s sake. She hadn't spent the whole night tossing and turning in utter and complete stress to not—

Check.

Maybe, by some miracle, he’d come back.

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Lydia pushed the door open.

She startled when she found a demon-shaped lump atop the bed, purple hair tufting out from under the blankets. He was awake, Lydia realized, when he shifted, blinking at her with a set of lazy orange eyes.

Lydia felt sick. Like she was going to throw up if she stayed here looking at him a second longer. She was angry, angry and confused and, and—

Hurt.

How did he—who the hell let him back in the house? She wondered, then, if her dad had really taken her words to heart, or, the more likely option, if he’d snuck back in, back to a house full of people who hated him.

It was tragic, really.

Beetlejuice sat up. He rubbed his eyes, looking generally discombobulated, like he was hungover or plain-old dying. Lydia didn't know. She didn't care, either, no, not at all. He was a dick and she had to get to school on time or her dad would kill her.

Beetlejuice opened his mouth, closed it.

“Kid, I—” he started, looking an awful lot like a kicked puppy.

Lydia slammed the door shut, kicked it for good measure. Hearing a thump followed by a muffled set of curses from inside the room.

Downstairs, she didn't bother with breakfast or begging Delia for a ride. Instead, she slung her backpack over her shoulders and marched straight out the door, doing her best not to think about anything that had gone on over the past twenty-four hours.

Which was easy enough. The sky was dark and sort of misty. On instinct, Lydia went to pull her camera from her bag, berating herself when she remembered the last she’d seen of it had been when she’d hurled it at an overzealous poltergeist.

Great going, Lydia. Fucking Beetlejuice, fucking, what did he know? He was just a dumb, hairy, short guy stuck perpetually in his thirties. Whatever.

Lydia thought she might cry.

At least she got to school on time.

There, she found Jen, her hair tugged into a messy bun, dressed in a cropped band tee and an oversized jean jacket. She stood by Lydia’s locker like it was somehow both natural and normal and they’d totally been friends for ages.

“Hi,” Jen said, far too cheery for eight o’clock in the morning. “I brought you a cookie.”

She held up a paper bag.

“Which is weird, now that I think about it. It’s morning. Who the hell eats cookies for breakfast? Fuck. Whatever. You can eat it later.”

Jen grinned like she belonged in a crest commercial or California. She was sort of, the physical embodiment of California, not that Lydia had even been to California, she just—

She was nice. Kind of. Not really. Nicer than Beej.

Jen’s face fell.

“Hey,” she grabbed Lydia’s chin, forcing Lydia to meet her eyes. “Is something wrong? Are you like, super allergic to cookies and like, entirely massively offended by the fact that I’d even have the audacity to assume that you would want a fucking cookie?”

“No,” Lydia said. Jen was joking, right? She _had_ to be joking. “I just uh, rough night, I guess. I hate my cousin.”

Jen nodded, started eating the cookie.

“Oh, I feel you. I got into a screaming match with my parents last night. For no fucking reason. Ended grounded for two weeks, meaning I have to ride to school with my stupid deadbeat brother who I hate. He’s like, one step away from being a creeper at an anime convention, I swear.”

“Eww,” Lydia said, pretending that she was used to having conversations with objectively attractive popular girls who smelt like strawberries and wore too much lip gloss.

“But your cousin, the Lawrence dude, right? He seemed...cool, I think? Unless he’s not.” Jen raised her eyebrows. “Is he into drugs? He looks like he’d be into drugs.”

Lydia winced.

“Very into drugs,” she said, and Jen laughed.

“Oh thank god. I was getting a vibe,” she broke the cookie in half, handed it to Lydia. “So spill, what’d he do? I’ve never seen you so pissed. Or, I have, I guess, sorry again, fuck.”

Lydia waved her off, biting into her half of the cookie because what else was she supposed to do? It was good, anyways, M&M which usually wouldn't have been her thing. Maybe it was only because she’d skipped breakfast, but tasted better than anything Delia had ever made.

“He’s living with us for a bit. His mom kicked him out. And it sucks, seeing him sad all the time. It doesn't help that my parents hate him,” Lydia said, crumbling a bit of cookie between her fingers. “And I guess he picked up on it because he went off at them last night. Totally lost it.”

“Damn. Did your parents freak?”

“I, honest to god, have never seen my dad so angry.”

“Wow,” Jen said, momentarily stunned into silence. “Wait. Did his mom kick him out because he’s like, gay, or because he was a grown-ass adult who’s old enough to have kids and a family and shit?”

“...Both?” Lydia shrugged. It wasn't like she could say _"he’s a demon and his mom kicked him out of the netherworld because I wouldn't leave him alone, but then again, it’s kind of your fault too because if you hadn't freaked out on me in the changeroom, I would never have summoned him in the first place."_

“And he’s pan, not gay,” she said, somewhat weakly.

“I get it, I dated a pan dude one time, which was like, cool,” Jen nodded sagely, and Lydia like, deflated and fuck, what the fuck? What the fuck?

Why did she—it wasn't like she _wanted_ Jen to be gay, or, bi or whatever. Except—

Okay, maybe she sort of did.

She was so super fucked.

“Anyway,” Lydia said, in an attempt to salvage the situation. “Want to hang out on Friday? You can come to my house. It’ll be cool.”

And holy shit where did _that_ come from? And why had she offered her house of all places? Her house which was currently infested with one overbearing but ultimately decent father, a crazy stepmom who was guaranteed to try and feed them chickpea brownies, two ‘warm milk, white bread ghosties’ (Beej’s words, not hers), and well—

Jen had already met Beetlejuice, and oddly enough, that made him the least for her worries.

“Your house is haunted, right?” Jen said, pulling Lydia out of her thoughts. “Like, Buzzfeed unsolved wants what it has. I think. I’ve only seen one episode. It’s like ghostbusters but gimmicky, right?”

Lydia ignored the last bit. “The house is haunted by my ex-husband, yeah.”

“Your what?”

“True story, I was a child bride for all of thirty seconds. Nevermind, it’s...complicated.”

Jen snorted in disbelief. “Sounds like it. I can come, by the way. My friends do this fun thing where they don't invite me to stuff unless I super beg for it, so I'm like, pretty much always free.”

“Oh,” Lydia said, unsure how she was supposed to respond to what might’ve been just about the saddest sentence she’d ever heard. “Okay. Well, it’ll be fun, we can order a pizza or some shit.”

“Right,” Jen said, a look of sadness crossing her face.

Lydia had no idea what she’d done wrong, so she forced a smile to her features and finished off the last of the cookie.

Right on time, as that was when the morning bell decided to ring.

Jen squeezed Lydia’s shoulder. “Here, I’ll walk you to class and you can tell me about the absolute bullshittery that goes along with living in a haunted house, yeah?”

Lydia’s class was in the opposite direction, but she wasn't about to tell Jen that.

⁂

Delia had a routine.

And Beetlejuice, for lack of sleep and an overabundance of time, had familiarized himself with the comings and goings of the occupants of the house. Not that it had been difficult, when it involved him doing his best to covertly follow the others around the house. He'd gotten used to being off or berated when they got fed up with having him around.

Beetlejuice wasn't annoying, for the most part, at least, he didn't think he was. He just liked the company of another, the acknowledgment that he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

Except, he still kinda was, wasn't he?

Anyway, Delia talked to herself almost as much as he did, so it wasn't like she could blame him for being one clown short of a circus. Today, it was something about the rain, ‘negative presences,’ and the fact that they’d run out of sugar.

After Lydia had left for school, he’d dragged himself out of bed, making sure he heard the door slam before he followed her downstairs, his duvet still wrapped around his shoulders.

It was dark. Darker than usual. As Delia favored a ‘natural ambiance,’ even on days where it was so fucking rainy that everything took on a greyish tint. Breathers couldn't see in the dark, he knew, and that fact became increasingly apparent when she failed to notice his presence.

She was sat on the sofa, sipping her (sugarless) tea and reading some stupid useless breather ‘women’s health’ magazine, which everyone knew translated to yoga and douching and Beetlejuice couldn't have given much of a shit about either.

Not that he was trying to get her attention or anything. He was focused on getting to the kitchen without losing his shit because what the fuck had he gotten himself into? Guiding the Maitlands. Something he was trying very, very hard not to think about.

Not that he could put it off for long. Sure, time ran differently in the living world. He had a week, tops, and that was if he was really fucking lucky. After that, mother dearest would swoop in and murder his undead ass.

Beetlejuice shook his head, flapped his hands, did his best not to think about all that fucking bullcrap because he felt weird and sluggish and on edge. He would've slept if he wasn't certain that he was going to be met with nightmares the second he drifted off. He didn't fancy dealing with his crapshoot of a brain’s retelling of one of his stupid bullshit flavor of the week traumas. Thanks but no thanks, Beetlejuice would have to pass on that one.

Instead, he continued on his way to the kitchen, stifling a yawn as he went.

Delia must've noticed him then because she jumped. Faced him with a look of fear and surprise. For a second, one glorious second, Beetlejuice wondered if she was going to scream. She didn't, and he cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn't mean to scare ya.”

“It’s alright,” she replied, and Beetlejuice nodded. He didn't know where he stood with Delia. He knew they all talked about him when he wasn't around. Usually because they weren't smart enough to avoid saying his name, which, let him tell you, it was not fun to get hit with sharp, stabbing chest pain out of nowhere. He dealt, though, and it wasn't like he was going to hold it against them if they wanted to make him their topic of conversation. He just, sometimes he wished they’d be a little more discreet about it.

Early last week, he’d overheard the two of them—Delia and Charles—saying shit about him. It was funny, even if okay, fine, it had hurt a little.

Beetlejuice thought back to them, stood in the hallway outside Lydia’s bedroom. _“Maybe a little life coaching would benefit him,”_ Charles had said.

Beetlejuice, who’d been very much occupied napping under Lydia’s bed, had bolted upright, smashing his head against the underside of the bed frame and stuffing his fist in his mouth to keep himself silent.

He’d listened, doing his best not to draw attention to himself. Listened as Delia went on, >em>“are you really asking me to try and—and…help him?” she’d said, going on about how Charles was asking her to try and fix a literal demon, and while yes, he clearly had emotions, she had no idea if they worked on a basis of deeper thought and understanding or if he, to put it simply, just was.

Which, okay, rude much? You didn't see Beetlejuice going around questioning the sentience of every demon _he_ ran into on the street. And maybe he was a little lacking in the intelligence department, but he was sure he made up for it with his charming witticisms and good looks; apparently not.

According to Delia, he was a walking ball of ID that lacked the fundamental components to even begin to delve into self-reflection and eventual self-betterment. And when she’d kindly informed Charles of such, he’d brushed it off, saying something about how there had to be something she could do to help, that he was quote-unquote ‘unbalanced’ and if they wanted to avoid any future incident, she’d do her best.

Great fucking going, Chuck.

Beetlejuice had been just about to alert them to his presence, manifest a snake or two, when he caught the look on Delia’s face. Though he was generally super terrible with reading people, especially breathers, he could tell she felt more than a little bad for him. He'd been so weirded-out by the notion that he’d laid there in silent shock as he waited for them to leave. Dragging himself out from under the bed only when he knew with absolute certainty that they weren't going to be around to bother him.

Afterward, he’d gone downstairs and eaten a crapton of peanut butter sandwiches to stop himself from thinking about it. It hadn't worked, of course, but then Lydia had shown up and he’d forgotten the entire thing.

“So,” Delia said, pulling him from his thoughts. “It’s imperative that we get to know each other better, if not for me then for Lydia’s sake.”

Beetlejuice grimaced. God, he wanted nothing less than to spend even two minutes ‘getting to know her.' She was boring. Not Maitlands boring, more like, ‘I’ve seen and done some shit but I'm old now and I like yoga’ boring. Still, he sighed, stopped midway towards the kitchen, and stared at her. Really stared at her.

“Did Chuck put you up to this?” He said, rocking back on his heels and biting at his thumbnail. She was looking at him funny, and Beetlejuice resisted the urge to bolt. He was better than that, he wouldn't be scared off by some middle-aged breather.

“Yes,” Delia responded eventually, patting the space beside her.

Beetlejuice sat, trying not to flinch when their shoulders brushed. Once he was sure she wasn't going to shoot upwards from the couch screaming that she'd tricked him, he slumped down next to her. Letting out a croaking groan, he kicked his feet out to rest on the coffee table, and pulled a pillow to his chest.

“Whaddya wanna know?” He said, flakes of dark nail polish drifting onto his lap as he bit at his fingers.

“Know? I don't want to know anything,” she said, sipping her tea. “Charles and I were talking and we think you could use my um, services.”

“What? Are you some kinda spiritual guru prostitute? ‘Cause thanks, thanks but no thanks, I got like, mad herpes.”

“Uh—”

“Seriously, D, I'm sexy af, and I'm down for some casual groping. I know you’re figuratively into my ass, but I dunno if you want to make it literal. Hot as that would be.”

“Not what I meant,” Delia said. “Do you often make lewd comments as a means of deflection?”

“Depends. Define ‘often,’” Beetlejuice said, eyes focused solely on her tits. “Now are we doing the groping or not? All this foreplay is making me antsy.”

“As um, as interesting as that sounds, I’ll have to decline, my fiance—”

“Dorothy’s off the market, huh?”

“Very astute, yes, I am ‘off the market’ so to speak,” she replied, forcing her features into a pleasant smile. A look that said ‘I don't find you creepy or disgusting and you only smell a normal amount like moldy cigarettes and wet dog combined.’

“Now,” she said, setting her mug down as she brought her hands together. “what if we tried something a little different?”

“Like a game?” Beetlejuice said. This was going to be good. He already knew it.

“Not quite, it’s—”

“Are you sure this isn't some kinda kink thing? Your hubby’s not gonna like, pop out from behind the couch and go all _‘we fooled you with love,’_ and then stab me to death again, right?”

“I can promise you it’s nothing like that. It’s like, okay, you know when—”

“Like, an orgy? Is that what this is? Listen, sweetheart, I already said it ain't gonna happen.”

“Oh, it’s worse than an orgy. All you need to do is share one true, emotionally compromising fact, we both share one, like—oh! A verbal trust fall of sorts.”

Beetlejuice blinked. “I don't know what that is.”

“Nevermind. Just—i’ll go first.”

He eyed her suspiciously. He didn't very much want to play some stupid breather game. He was a demon, for god's sake, and this wasn't a fucking sleepover.

Beetlejuice had heard stories from Lydia about how back before he’d shown up, all awesome and cool and stuff, Delia had been her life coach. A shitty one, at that. And yeah, with the way she was acting, it checked out. Fortunately for Delia. he was too exhausted to bother telling her to fuck off.

“Alright, I'm going to say it, I eat my feelings,” she said.

Beetlejuice scoffed.

“Woman, you’re skinny as shit,” he said. “You're like a twig that had sex with another twig and those twigs gave birth to a third, even skinnier twig. Also, that was my line.”

“That’s because I never have any bad feelings.”

“Good for you. Can I go now? I’ve been forcibly instructed to reanimate the neighbor's cat which, as you know, is a whole thing so I need to bring my A-game. Sidenote: I'm like, super horny—your fault, not mine—so if you need me, I’ll be jacking off in the bathroom. Bye.”

The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears, mostly because he sucked balls at reanimation. Even if Charles _had_ politely asked him to try and ‘return’ the cat’s body (or what was left of it) to the neighbor so she could take the ‘missing cat’ signs down and move on with her life.

Beetlejuice moved to stand and Delia grabbed his arm, attempting to pull him back to the couch.

Not that it worked, seeing as he was a hell of a lot stronger than her. He stared at her, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ugh. No offense, Delila, but the buddy-buddy thing isn't working for me.”

“How often do you get sad?” She cut in, staring at him intently.

“Uhhh, normal amounts?” He said. “Seriously though, I got—”

He snapped his fingers and a bedraggled thing that had perhaps once been a cat appeared in his hand, stinking of rotting meat and blood. Delia shrieked and Beetlejuice grinned in return.

“—this to deal with so, y’know, no hard feelings or anything but I’ll pass on the emotional bullcrap for today.”

“Wait one second,” she said. “Charles...and I, we both think there’s something you’re not telling us, something that’s—how do I put this delicately—upsetting your vibes, if you will. I know that right now, well, I mean, you’re going through a lot, but it might be helpful if you had someone to talk to. And I happen to know someone who can—”

“It’s you, isn't it? You were going to say, ‘and that someone is me’ and I was supposed to look at you all shocked and burst into sudden, unexpected tears like some sappy Hallmark movie.”

“...Yes?” Delia said. “Is it working?”

“No,” Beetlejuice sat down with a sigh. “Listen, this has all been a fucking delight but you guys are going to have to try harder if you want to see me cry.”

“You cried yesterday,” Delia said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Wednesday too, when you and Lydia were watching that pirate movie with what’s-his-name in it.”

“Never happened.”

“Fine, but I'm here if you ever need to talk, okay? And I know it doesn't mean much, but I do have an online degree from the—”

“Fuck it. I made you all sad, and now you're doing that stupid breather frowny face thing and goddamn, I can't take it.” Beetlejuice snapped his fingers and the cat disappeared. “Will an emotionally compromising fact make you feel better? ‘Cause your sadness-face is bumming me out.”

“Yes,” Delia said.

“Alright, Jesus Christ, you breathers are such limpdicks,” Beetlejuice deflated. “If you must know, I also eat my feelings.”

He broke into a sharp-toothed grin after he said it, snorting through his nose as he watched a frown pull across her face.

“Oh my god, you really thought I was going to spill,” he said, breaking off into laughter. “You did! Holy shit Darlene, you must feel so stupid right now, you colossal idiot. Everyone already knows I eat my fucking feelings.”

Delia sighed, looking like she’d regretted even trying to talk to him.

Beetlejuice stood, shaking himself like a dog.

“Show’s over, shit do to and all that,” he said, pulling her up off the couch and into a hug.

At first, Delia looked startled, followed by disgusted. Beetlejuice brought his face to her ear, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“I'm sorry, okay? For the shit I pulled a few months back. Believe me when I say I wish none of it had ever happened, but it did, and I'm here, and uh, yeah, I'm sorry for, you know, kicking you out of your house and terrorizing the neighbors and sending your hot piece of ass guru dude to bumfuck New Mexico.”

“That’s where he went?” Delia said, jaw-dropping. “He's not dead?”

“No idea. Maybe some loser he scammed decided to exact revenge, not me though, pinkie promise.”

He then promptly dropped her back to the couch, vanished with a puff of smoke.

He had a body to return.

⁂

The day passed far too slowly for Lydia’s liking. With her glancing at the clock every few minutes to find that time was meaningless and existence was a prison and she hated Beetlejuice or Beetlejuice hated her.

Either way, she was exhausted from lack of sleep and everything sucked in a dull but somehow immediate way that made her head hurt.

To make things worse, Lydia had underestimated the risks of pulling and almost-all-nighter; a fact that became glaringly apparent when she fell asleep in the middle of math class.

Head pillowed in her arms, Lydia was kicked awake by the kid behind her to the unhappy realization that her teacher had called her to the board to answer something that vaguely resembled a trig problem.

The question was incomprehensible, something she kept to herself before blurting out about about how math was idiotic and her teacher was a fascist.

Which, yeah, great way to get detention. She also had the fun bonus of getting to talk to the teacher after class. What about, Lydia had no idea; there was a lot to pick from. Her personality for one, her aesthetic, the fact that she preferred to stuff her notes into the trash can rather than use a binder, the list went on.

She wondered what her teacher would say if she summoned a demon directly into the classroom. Bad idea, right?

Fucking probably.

Sometimes, Lydia really missed her mom.

After class, per instructed, she marched solemnly to the front of the room and stood beside the teacher—Mr. T—until he gestured for her to have a seat in front of his desk.

Having come to the realization that her situation was likely inescapable by some inane excuse, Lydia sat.

“You seem like a very bright young woman—” he started, and Lydia had to physically stop herself from punching him in his stupid, smug face. “—So much potential,” he droned. She fiddled with the sleeves of her sweatshirt, imagined a truck running head-on into the building, smashing through the wall, glass everywhere, no more shitty math teacher.

Fuck. Beej must’ve rubbed off on her. Or not. Lydia was starting to think even she’d be a better demon than him; with his pajamas and fluffy hair and the way his eyes went all wide and stupid when Barbara offered to let him help make cookies.

What a fucking idiot.

“I can't help but notice you seem...distracted. Would you say that’s fair?” Mr. T eyed her, eyebrows raised like Lydia was supposed to give a damn.

“Sure,” Lydia mumbled, when it became apparent he wasn't going to continue without her input.

“Myself and the other staff were all made aware of your mother’s recent passing, but I think it would be awesome if you showed a little more engagement in class discussions. Who knows—”

_Awesome?_ What the hell kind of adult said the word ‘awesome’ in the same sentence as ‘your mother’s recent passing’? An idiot, that was who.

“Fuck this,” Lydia said, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet, backpack slung over her shoulders in an instant.

“Excuse me?” Mr. T’s eyes widened as his face lit with confusion. What, did he not expect nice young ladies like her to swear? Lydia was done with this asshole.

“You heard what I said,” Lydia muttered, walking as fast as she could towards the door and out of the room. She dug her nails into her palms as she realized what she’d done. And yeah, cussing out her math teacher wasn't the best look for her end of semester report.

Lydia glanced up as she exited the room, finding that for the most part, the halls were empty. It seemed that the majority of the students had found their way to class in the time it took Mr. T to lecture her, the space punctuated only by the occasional straggler.

A kid who looked no older than thirteen stared wide-eyed as she passed. Lydia willed herself not to start crying in the middle of the mostly abandoned hallway. That would be worse than embarrassing, almost as bad as the time she’d kicked over her desk and stormed out of the classroom in the middle of a test, though that had been right after her mom died, so at least she’d had an excuse. Getting in a fight with her pet demon hardly held the same weight.

So why did she feel so shitty?

Lydia didn't go to gym class. Last period and who gave a crap, especially when her teacher had gleefully informed them that they would be practicing track and field in preparation for the upcoming tryouts. No fucking thanks. Lydia preferred not to sweat out half her body weight in some stupid twelve hundred meter dash. Plus she was like, crying a tiny bit and she would sooner die than give her classmates the pleasure of witnessing the weirdo witch girl have a breakdown. Instead, she figured she could kill time by going to the library and pretending like she was working on homework until school let out.

Her plans were dashed when she found that the library was closed for some speech competition thing, forcing her to wander out back behind the school out of sheer boredom.

She was contemplating walking home and telling her parents she’d felt too sick for gym class when she saw Ethan, alone, backpack over his shoulders and he looked angry. And shit, shit, shit. Maybe if Lydia walked fast enough she could avoid a confrontation. She was honestly surprised her luck had kept up as long as it had when it came to avoiding the shitheads from the mall.

Clearly, she could avoid them no longer.

“Deetz,” Ethan called, stopping in front of her. He looked even more pissed than he had the day at the mall. “You look like you’re in a hurry; late for some kind of animal sacrifice? Or do you have a lesbian witch orgy to get to? Talk to me for a sec.”

Lydia did her best to glare at him.

“I'm serious. You’re from new york, right? Tell me about new york. Why’d you move?”

Lydia shook him off, kept walking, head down, fists clenched so she didn't have to look at him. _"Don't them a reaction, Lydia,"_ her dad would say, _"it’s what they want."_

And yeah, true, but—

“I heard it was because your mom died and your dad like, couldn't take it, so he married some spazz and—hey, is it true you’re always wearing black because you think you’re some sad victorian lady in mourning for her dead husband, or is it a gay thing?”

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest, bit her lip. She imagined a thousand gruesome deaths, all of which would have been too good for him.

Beside her, he continued, incessant, like a fly or mosquito. Lydia told herself he wasn't worth engaging with, but fuck, it would feel so great if she could—

“Why won't you talk to me, Lydia? I’m trying to have a conversation. It’s rude to keep ignoring me like this. What did I ever do to you?”

Fuck it.

Lydia whirled around to face him, clenching her jaw and he was still talking. Talking and talking and talking and boy, did she ever wish he would shut up.

“Are you deaf?” Ethan continued. “You think you’re so good, don't you? Just ‘cause you’re not from around here, doesn't mean you get to show up with your shitty family and your creeper cousin and—”

Lydia punched him in the face. Like. As hard as she could. Which, judging by the way he reacted, stepping backward and rubbing at his jaw, was hard enough to hurt.

“You don't get to do that,” he said. “You don't get to _fucking_ do that. What? So you’ve got anger issues now? Fucking bitch.”

Lydia barely had time to register the pain in her knuckles, her heart beating a mile a minute, dull pain, and his nose was bleeding, and _shit_ , before he shoved her backward, throwing her to the ground.

The concrete scraped at her palms, at her cheek, and Lydia managed not to hit her head. Her wrist throbbed, she had a new hole in her jeans.

Hot with anger, she stood, but Ethan was faster, yanking her backpack off the ground where it had fallen and dumping her books out everywhere.

It took all her effort to stop herself from dissolving into uncontrollable anger. Scratching and punching because Ethan was a fucking idiot. He had no right, no fucking right to go through her stuff and insult her and shove her to the ground like that. No fucking right.

Lydia stood, numbly. Ethan kicked her bag across the courtyard before he stormed off, nose still bleeding.

Shakily, she gathered the books, stuffed them into her muddied backpack. Oh god she was going to be in so much trouble, wasn't she? Lord knew the principal already hated her guts. Ethan, the sniveling brat he was, would sure to tattle to whoever the hell needed tattling to, which meant a probable expulsion or, in the very least, yet another suspension considering it had hardly even been a week since her last offense.

Whatever. That was a problem for future Lydia, at least, that was what she was thinking when she picked a random direction and started walking, desperate to get away from the school and the bullshit that came along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> repost because ao3 is being a little bitch. long story short because im too lazy to type it all out again but updates are going to be a lot more sporadic for the foreseeable future, i'm so sorry, ive just been busy lately which fucking SUCKS. trust me when i say id rather be in my room writing fic all day. 
> 
> anyway, aside from the angst session, i dont have a ton to say about this chapter, other than beej and delia finally get an interaction. if y'all couldn't tell, they're my faves and id die for them in a heartbeat. also, jen content!! hi yes, i accidentally created a beetlejuice oc and im not even mad about it holy shit i love her.
> 
> please leave a comment or a kudos and come hmu on tumblr (@iswearimnotahorsegirl) where i post 16x a day because my queue is way too fucking long and im trying to purge my meme backlog. as always, thanks for reading!!


End file.
